


Waking Up

by hillnerd



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Australia, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Hogwarts, canon pairings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2020-12-16 10:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21034856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillnerd/pseuds/hillnerd
Summary: The war is over, but there's still plenty of battles ahead for Hermione and Ron. Her parents are still in Australia, Ron is hiding secrets, and she has to wonder when she'll wake up and it's not from a nightmare.My version of an 'Australia fic', canon compliantwill add characters, tags, warning etc as needed.





	1. Hiding Spots and Whisks

**Author's Note:**

> A giant thank you to abradystrix, for betaing and britpicking,  
and thank you to diva-gonze/amysthefardareismai for a bIt of editing as well! :)
> 
> This has about 32k written so far- and no I haven't given up on other fics- just have the attention span of a gnat :P

****The spell ripped through her. She was sure that muscles tore away from bone. She was flayed, raw and screaming. Ropes cut into her skin. Her back arched unnaturally. All she could feel was the pain searing through her, again and again. Unrelenting pain. 

_Please kill me..._

And then it stopped, and she let out a pitiful cry, rocking back and forth as much as the ropes would allow. 

“I think the Mudblood enjoys it. Otherwise it wouldn’t continue to _lie_.”

She brokenly sobbed. Every muscle spasmed, and all strength left her. She couldn’t even twist her face away as Bellatrix Lestrange’s nails cruelly dug into her jaw.

“That filthy goblin will reveal your lies, and when he does, nothing will be able to save you,” Bellatrix whispered in her ear. Hermione whimpered, trying to repeat that the sword wasn’t theirs, but she couldn’t speak. Her tongue was slack and nerveless.

“The sword is the true sword of Gryffindor,” the little goblin declared.

An unholy shriek wrent from Bellatrix. She roughly pulled Hermione to her feet and snapped back her neck. All Hermione could see was the chandelier. A knife was brought to her neck and painfully pressed into her flesh.

“Let’s see how filthy that blood is.”

The knife tortuously sawed through her larynx. Blood was choking her, and gushing down her body. Was she was dying from the wound, or from drowning in her own blood?

With a gasp, Hermione woke up, hands going to her throat. 

Her throat had not been slit; it was whole, with only had a small scar marring the otherwise smooth skin. She wasn’t in Malfoy Manor being tortured. She was at the Burrow, probably one of the safest homes in all of England. 

She gave a cold shiver. The patchwork quilt was wet through with perspiration, and her clothes clung to her. Her throat felt raw, which meant she had been screaming in her sleep again. 

The silencing charm seemed to have held for another night, as Ginny was sleeping away in the bed beside hers. She puckered her lips to give a small whistle, but no sound came with the blow of air. Good. The charm was still working perfectly. With a wave of her wand she undid it. 

There was no point in trying to fall asleep; she never could after a vivid nightmare like that one. She snuck out of the room and walked down the wooden steps to the sitting room with practiced ease. Making the journey almost every night, she had quickly learned how to avoid the creakiest floor boards. Her path along the hallway was pitch black, but the last bit of moonlight illuminated the sitting room, along with the earliest tinges of morning light. 

In the darkness at the end of the sofa sat Ron. She wasn’t surprised to see him. He’d been down there almost every night the past few weeks. It didn’t matter if it was midnight or four in the morning, there he’d be, as if keeping watch for the house. She didn’t think anyone but herself and perhaps his parents knew. She'd heard his mother admonishing him for his poor sleep habits, having come across him early in the morning.

From what Hermione gathered, he almost never went to bed until someone else was up, as if he were still taking watch outside that horrid tent. He would hold his wand and stare out the window, for hours sometimes. On a few nights where she hadn’t felt like talking to anyone, she’d sat on the steps from the first landing and watched him pace back and forth, occasionally taking breaks to sit and bounce his knee. He didn’t even have much of a lie in the following morning. He looked exhausted, but continued on as if nothing had happened, waking early and tending to everyone in the house like he was fine. 

Tonight he was hunched over his chessboard. He grimaced in pain as he rubbed at his left shoulder. Fingers dug along his trapezius, before he gave a rough roll of his shoulder, stretching it around a bit. He let out a hiss, whether in pain or relief she couldn’t say, until he gave a small smile and stretched, rotating his hand with a satisfied look on his face.

Hermione slid her feet along the floor a little louder than necessary to announce her presence. She knew better than to startle him, otherwise she would meet a wand pointed in her direction. Of course, this was true of almost everyone after the war. Harry was the fastest draw, but Ron was a close second, with equally flayed nerves and fast reflexes. 

“You should be in bed,” Ron chastised, but his actions belied his admonishment. He budged over and patted the sofa for her to sit beside him, which she happily did. 

“Have you even _been_ to bed yet?” 

“Yeah, but I can only sit and listen to Harry’s snoring and moaning about my sister in his sleep for so long.” Ron had great purple bags under his eyes, but he skillfully changed the topic and she was too groggy headed to pursue it further.

“Well, you shouldn’t have to sit in the dark like this just because you’re having trouble sleeping. It can’t be good for your eyes.”

“I don't want to wake anyone with lights,” Ron said with a tight shrug. “Past few nights Mum has scurried down the second I turned them on. She needs the sleep more than anyone. Plus, I wanted to be alone.”

“I'm sorry I intruded,” she apologized. She knew how hard it was to be around people anymore. Of course he needed an escape. Especially from her! She was rotten company anyway. “I'll just scarper back— ”

She moved to get up, but he put a staying hand on her arm and gave her a faint smile.

“I'm happy to be alone with you, though,” he said, smoothing a bit of her hair behind her shoulder, his hand lingering around her jawline.

“Oh!” she replied, a smile breaking across her face. Her cheeks burned as she settled in and leaned into his good shoulder. It wasn’t as bony as it had been even a few weeks ago. He was back to having a deceivingly solid build for one so tall and thin.

He was always handsome to her, but the hunger they had experienced while they were runaways had made them all rather emaciated. During the war it was hard to take in the gradual changes they had gone through physically. In the fleeting moments they’d changed clothes in front of each other there wasn’t the time to take in each other’s forms. They were too focused on getting warm, and surviving, to even spare a glance much of the time. 

It wasn’t until they were at the Burrow, scrubbed clean of all the muck and dust that Hermione could finally see how hollow they all were. Ron had looked the most normal of them. He had always been tall and thin with broad shoulders, so no matter how much weight he lost, the width of his shoulders basically stayed the same size. He looked almost his usual self when dressed.

Normally Molly Weasley would practically be force feeding them, but the loss of her son kept her out of the kitchen. She stayed sequestered in her bedroom, sobbing for well over a week, barely leaving the room except for the myriad of funerals. Ron and Fleur had taken over the task of feeding everyone during the first weeks after the war. 

A few days after Fred’s funeral, Mrs Weasley finally started taking an interest in her remaining family again. She had little energy for cooking, but enough to start working on healing them all up a bit more properly. 

One by one she sat them down and used a number of spells and tonics on the scars they’d picked up. Hermione thought Mrs Weasley’s ministrations would be wasted, given how long ago their injuries had been, but she was able to achieve great progress on a few of the burns and scars. 

One morning Hermione had come downstairs to see Ron shirtless in the living room, his mother tending to his shoulder to see if she could heal it any better.

“You did a number on yourself, Ron, splinching yourself like this,” she heard the matron tut at him. It was Hermione’s fault he’d been splinched so horribly, but he said nothing to correct his mother. 

Hermione had quietly tried to read in the corner, but her eyes kept going to his body, specifically his left shoulder and the terrible scarring that was all her fault. She realized that day how skeletal he’d become. 

His ribs, even the ones near his collar bones, were all apparent, the knobs of his spine far too pointed, and his hip bone, just visible from his sagging jeans, stuck out like a handle.

After that, his mother seemed to see it as her personal mission to make them plump up again. The boys were able to tear into her meals with fervor and pack on the pounds quickly, but Hermione found it difficult to eat much of anything. 

Eating Molly Weasley’s cooking for weeks had Ron filled out almost magically fast, and with it Hermione realized that he was broader of shoulder and taller than ever before. His threadbare clothes were all far too small for him, and no stretching charms could make them fit him much better at this point. She quite liked it when his jeans were a bit too tight, but she had never dared tell him that. 

For all the ways their relationship had changed and brought them closer, there were still boundaries she hadn’t dared to cross. She’d been able to cover up her nightmares from him for weeks. She didn’t want anyone to know, but she especially wanted to keep the nightmares from Ron. 

It was not just her that he was always watching over. He was watching over everyone. He was carefully watching Harry and prodding him to come out of his shell. He was watching his mother and making sure nothing disturbed her when she was in a somewhat calm mood. He was watching his brothers and making sure they got along. He was hunting down George and making sure he got home in one piece after drinking a bit too much. He was watching his father and making sure he had privacy when he was about to cry. He was looking after his sister, to make sure Harry and she were getting on. And he was suspiciously watching any stranger who came near them whenever they ventured from the confines of the Burrow.

He’d watched his brother die right in front of him, and he was doing his best to comfort everyone. He was so overwrought, she didn't want to burden him further. 

“You’re being quiet,” Ron commented, not for the first time in the last few weeks. 

She gave a sigh. Her mind was buzzing, but blank. She felt like her mind had been put through a french press, and all that was left was the grounds to be thrown out with the rubbish. 

Even if she had her wits about her, it's not like she could sit and tell him about the fascinating day she’d had. Most days she sequestered herself in a dark corner and pretended to read until she nodded off. Anything interesting he’d probably seen, as they were quite joined at the hip. Under no circumstances would she tell him about her nightmares.

She gave a shrug, and wove her hand into his. 

"I suppose I'm just tired.”

And she was. Her whole body ached and she longed to curl up where she sat for a long nap. She wasn’t even missing out on that much sleep in the scheme of things. She might have been woken by horrible nightmares, but she was getting so much sleep during the day she didn't see how anyone could still be so tired. Of the two of them, it was Ron who didn't sleep, yet he seemed more capable than ever.

Ron hummed in response.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk? It's four thirty in the morning!”

“And who doesn’t enjoy a good early morning walk?” He rose and offered a hand to her. “Personally I think they’re meant for a comeback.”

“You do love an underdog,” she replied, taking his hand, which pulled her to standing with ease. 

He grabbed jackets and wellies from the scullery. They had a small collection of weathered canvas jackets, all smelling of hay and bonfires. She felt quite dwarfish when she put on the heavy jacket and its sleeves fell past her fingers by nearly a foot. 

Ron laughed as she struggled to fold the heavy fabric back from her hands.

“Here, let me.” Ron folded the fabric up her arm in a sweet doting way.

“Merlin, you’re tiny. This is the smallest one they have!” he said, as he finished the job and held her hand in his own.

“Why don’t you have a small one for Ginny or your mum? Neither of them are taller than I am.”

“Oh they just wear the same ones we do if they happen to need them. Plus it’s not like Ginny was made to shovel chicken coops, or dig up fence posts. Her chores were always more domestic.” 

The tiniest bit of morning light was beginning to peek from behind the hills, catching a few clouds and staining them pink.

“We can watch the sun rise soon,” Ron said, seeing where her eyes were looking. 

“It's funny. Technically I know when sunrise is, but somehow it always surprises me how early it starts getting light.”

“I think that’s because you grew up in the city.”

“Why would that make a difference?”

“Well, when you grow up in the country you get pretty familiar with getting woken up early to do the chores before it gets hot.”

“I don't remember you waking up early for anything,” she teased.

“Course I did. We all had to at least a few times a week. We had a chart and everything for whose turn it was to feed the chickens, check the fences, get eggs and veggies. I never was a morning person, of course, so half the time I’d just go back to bed as soon as I was done with my lot.”

"I never once noticed.”

“Well you were asleep, weren’t you, city girl?” Ron cheekily grinned as he easily hopped the wooden three rail fence they’d come upon. She struggled with her footing and awkwardly tried to climb it rail by rail. She’d never been particularly athletic or balanced, and found getting her boot over was a predictably unsteady affair. She had just managed to awkwardly straddle the fence when Ron put his hands at her hips, taking most of her weight and guiding her to the grass.

She gave her thanks and gave him a shy, but pleased, smile. He’d become more and more bold with touches here and there, but also a bit more tender and gentlemanly in how he looked after her. He’d always been chivalrous when it came to defending her, of course, but now he was practically gallant on a daily basis, putting out a hand to assist her, pouring her tea, holding an umbrella for her as they walked outside. 

He had his elbow out for her to hold as they journeyed through some longer grass that hid a bevy of roots that she nearly lost her footing on. If it weren’t for his heavy cursing and deep dose of sarcasm, he could easily fit into a historical romance novel from the way he doted on her. 

“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, looking around at the unfamiliar bit of field. 

“To get a better view of the sunrise.” 

Ron got to a tall tree and began hoisting himself up its branches.

“Ron! I can’t climb the tree in—in wellies! I can’t bend my ankles enough to do that in these and I’m not much for climbing, if I’m honest.”

"I know that,” Ron laughed, his upper body disappearing among some leaves. “Stay there a moment.”

“Oh don’t worry, I'm keeping my feet firmly on the ground! I don't care how good the view is, I'm not climbing that tree!”

“As fun as it’d be to see you try, that’s not the plan.”

In the twilight the upper branches were still blue hued and hard to make out. If not for the loud rustling of the branches, Ron would be easy to miss.

“There it is!” he cried in triumph. His feet dangled, as if he’d taken a seat. “Stand back!”

A wood and rope ladder clattered and unrolled itself from the tree before magically becoming rigid and straight as any staircase, complete with rope handrails. 

“Come on up!”

She smiled as she easily ascended the stairs to join him. There was a little wooden platform, not much longer or wider than a bench. She wasn’t afraid of heights, she liked to tell herself, but she also didn’t enjoy them and would avoid them whenever she could. 

Seeing her hesitation Ron rolled his eyes.

“There’s a barrier around the edge I just reinforced. You couldn’t fall off if you tried.”

He flicked a twig at the edge and it fell no further than the edge of his trainers.

She sat beside him and leaned against his shoulder.

“I imagine that spell was your mother’s work?” 

“Dad’s. We have a couple of these tree blinds hidden around. We’d sort of half-arsedly build them, then Mum or Dad would put protective spells around it so we don’t break our necks or something. This one was usually Charlie’s getaway place. And the- the twins… They were always trying to follow him up, so Dad put in some spells to make it safer if any of us weaseled our way up, but still afforded Charlie some privacy.”

“I can just imagine you all now: sticky fingered, muddy knees, running about the property, climbing any tree you come across and throwing rocks into the pond to watch the ripples.”

“It was pretty nice, yeah,” he said with a pained smile. 

“It sounds like the idyllic wild sort of childhood that I’d only been able to wish for.”

“Your childhood never sounded so bad to me.”

“It wasn’t bad at all, really. I had everything I needed, and it was quite lovely most of the time. It just afforded very few places to commune with nature. I remember loving the local hardware shop my father would take us to when he had some home project to take care of. They had a wonderful garden area I loved to get lost in. I’d pretend I was in the jungle like the Swiss Family Robinson, and wanted a house like theirs so badly.”

“So are these, like, famous Muggles or something?”

“They’re a made-up family in a book. They got shipwrecked on a tropical island and had to make do. They built an amazing treehouse in the film, and we watched it every Christmas. It wasn’t a particularly Christmassy movie, but it was a tradition of sorts for us.”

“Dad would fish out the ornament boxes from the attic, cursing the whole time as he crawled in the cramped attic. Mum and I would make hot chocolate and hang the lights on the tree. It was a tradition that the tree would remain clear of everything but the twinkle lights until the whole family was together. Then we’d put the ornaments on together. We’d try to time it out so we’d put the star on top of the tree as the song ‘O Christmas Tree’ played in the film.”

Hermione could remember her father trying to time it out year after year and they made it a sort of family challenge to get it right. They’d only properly managed twice, but the large whoops of glee they’d given had drowned out the film. 

The last time they’d done it, was the Christmas of her sixth year. One by one they’d each hang ornaments. ‘Baby’s first Christmas,’ woven lolly stick stars, fine German ornaments, and a few ugly old plastic electric ornaments from the 70s. Those had little child figures spinning in them that would short out the room if they were all plugged in to the same power strip. All the ornaments were placed on the tree with equal care. Her family grinned ear to ear at one another. 

They were so happy. What had her parents done this year? Hermione had left the ornaments in the attic as she didn’t have time to sort out the ones connected with herself, or that had their former names on them. Had she ruined their Christmas? Had they continued the tradition without Hermione? It wasn’t like it was their first Christmas without her. She’d skipped four in a row, from ages thirteen through sixteen. 

“That sounds loads nicer than Celestina Warbeck,” said Ron. “I’ve never seen a film. Was the Swede Family Robins alright?”

“Swiss Family Robinson. It’d probably be slow paced for most people, as it’s an older movie that came out back when my parents were just kids. It made quite the impression on me nonetheless. I begged and begged for a treehouse like the one in the film, but they said I’d grow tired of it too quickly and that it wasn’t worth the danger of me falling. I tried to make myself a secret fort under a large rhododendron bush and got a good scolding from my nanny for it when she saw I’d dragged a nice table cloth in there. She tried to get me to leave, and I wouldn’t. No matter how she grabbed for me, she couldn’t get a hold of me. It was one of my first bits of magic. She thought I was wiggling out of her grasp somehow, but her own arm had gone rubbery and useless every time she thrust it into my little fort.”

“How old were you when you had this little adventure?” Ron laughed.

“Oh, four or five. And don’t make fun!”

“I’m not! I just like picturing that angry little look on your face. I can see it now, so tiny with hair twice as wide as your body, curled up with a book in your little fort, all excited for a piece of adventure and rebelling against nannies,” he said, with a warm smile. “Did any of your friends have a playhouse or something you got to adventure in?”

“Oh… Well, I didn’t… There weren’t many children in my neighborhood, and I attended a small Church of England primary school, so even if I had friends, it was quite a lot of work to see anyone, make arrangements to be driven over and everything, so I didn’t.”

“So it was just you and some posh nanny?”

“Well don’t think me a terrible snob for having a nanny. Both my parents worked, so there was no one else to tend to me until I was old enough to attend school all day,” she rattled off, a bit embarrassed by her relative privilege. She felt silly complaining about it now. The poor little rich girl who didn’t get a tree house!

“Sounds a bit lonely,” he said, with a sympathetic look.

It had been lonely. Sometimes it felt like he could see right through her. Until Hogwarts Hermione had never had any real friends. There were a few children here or there that she’d gotten to play games with, but no real friends. Her parents were very loving and gave her every opportunity, but it wasn’t like the loud warm familiar household of the Weasleys. In some ways her somewhat distant parents made it easier for her to leave for Hogwarts. You couldn’t miss what you didn’t get to see much of. She never resented it. It was just how things were. It also made it much easier to lie to her parents. She lied and lied, then finally just erased herself from their minds, and they’d never forgive her for it.

Hermione shivered at the thought and brought her knees to her chest.

“Well, that’s enough about me,” she said, trying to center herself. She plastered a smile on. “Did you have a hiding spot like this tree house?” 

Ron jerked up sharply. The warm smile and deep eye contact he’d been giving her broke.

“No nothing like this.”

He stared down at his hands and began to fidget and pick at his cuticle. She wondered what could have caused such a change in him, but perhaps it was just memories of Fred. She hated how good memories could become so painful. She gave his hand a squeeze and after a moment his big warm hand squeezed back.

“There it is,” said Hermione as the sun began to peek over the hill. The puffball clouds became a lovely mix of peach and coral. “This really is a spectacular view. Thank you for— Ron, you’re bleeding!”

Ron blinked before confusedly looking about himself. She grabbed his left hand and inspected it. He’d ripped the cuticle so deep it made her wince in sympathy. It had to sting with how deep he’d torn it and how much blood there was.

“Your thumb...”

“Oh…” He blankly took his left hand from her hold and sucked the blood away. She gave a tut. 

“Don’t put your mouth on it! Your mouth has all sorts of bacteria!”

“It’ll be fine. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

And now he was pretending it didn’t even hurt, and he was bound to get it infected.

“Well I don’t care how fine you think it is, you shouldn’t mutilate your finger like that then introduce bacteria to it.”

“It’s really not a big deal.”

“You’ve messed up your fingers enough,” she admonished, taking hold of his hand to point to his missing fingernails. “You don’t need to mess up your thumb too.”

“Just leave it, Hermione!” he snapped, ripping his hand away and marching down the ladder, shoulders tight and high. He was a few meters away from the tree when he sighed and turned around.

“I’m sorry. I’m just…” he shook his head. “I don’t have a proper excuse. I was just thinking about— And you were pushing me and I… I’m sorry. Do you wanna continue watching the sun rise or did I bollocks it up?”

Hermione was about to shout back that he’d bollocksed it up pretty well, but stopped herself when she saw how pale he was. He was biting his lip and his hands were so clenched the knuckles had gone bone white. Something had rattled him, she just wasn’t sure what. 

“Are you alright?”

“‘M fine,” he said with a shrug. 

The magic of the sunrise had been a bit tainted. She left the light of the sunrise and stepped down the wooden steps to hold his hand. 

“How about we fix up your thumb, and then you show me your morning chores I’ve never gotten to see?”

“And I’ll try not to be such an arse.”

“And I’ll try not to be so pushy about something so minor.” 

They walked in silence, hand in hand, back to the house before Ron gave her his lopsided grin. “Was that our first fight?”

“Of course not! We’ve fought loads of times!”

“Well yeah, but never when you were my girlfriend… At least I don’t think?”

A thrill passed through her. Girlfriend! It felt silly, but she quite liked hearing him call her that. 

“You’re right,” she agreed. She was sure she had a goofy smile on her face, but she didn’t care.

“I guess I owe you a make up kiss.”

“Yes, I’d say you do.”

He gently pushed her up against a nearby tree and leaned over her. She stood on a root that helped narrow the height gap. His uninjured hand trailed up her arm before cupping her cheek and stroking it. His eyes were trailing all over her face and she couldn’t bring herself to look directly at him. The intensity of his stare made her tremble.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“I’m thinking about it,” he said with a crooked smile. He leaned down, but missed her mouth entirely, his lips finding their way to her jaw and slowly working their way to her neck. She let out a small moan as he sucked at her pulse point, and her hands went to his copper hair. His kisses trailed back up her neck to finally find her mouth. A flush went through her as he kissed her deeply, one hand cupping the back of her head, another trailing up her side. She was just starting to kiss back with equal furor, hands on his hips when he pulled back with a hiss and jerked away from her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Er… My hand got trapped,” he explained, flexing his hand a bit.

“Oh right! We really need to fix that up.”

“Sounds good,” he said, turning away from her. “I think Dad has some Dittany and plasters in his shed.”

“No argument?” she said, following his long strides.

Ron gave a shake of his head, before giving her a tight smile.

“I figure sooner I’m fixed up, sooner I get to kiss you again.”

She beamed at that. He helped her over the gate again, and by the time they reached the shed she was quite grateful to be indoors. The morning dew had seeped through her pajama trousers and she was shivering. The shed smelled of musty wood and dust, and the floor wasn’t paved. They called it a shed, but it more resembled a small barn. Ron turned a knob and the lamp above them glowed warmly, lighting up the dark space.

She’d never been inside Mr Weasley’s shed before, and it was a fascinating sight. As Ron went to find some plasters, she took her time looking about. Everywhere she looked there were collections of Muggle paraphernalia she couldn’t imagine anyone else in the world wanting to collect. She found boxes of twisted up slinkies, wires, batteries, holographic stickers, magnets and even a box of old fashioned rotary whisk.

She’d not ever used one of the mechanical whisks before and took it out to give a quick whirl of the handle.

“Found one of Dad’s collections have you?” Ron asked looking at the whisk with a mix between embarrassment and distaste.

“Yes. I hadn’t seen one of these in a while.”

“What’s it for? No, lemme guess! Looks like it could be a hair curler or something, doesn’t it?” he said taking another whisk from the box and haltingly moving the handle. It gave a terrible rusty clatter. “God, do all muggle things have to make such terrible sounds?”

“No they do not,” she laughed, demonstrating her own whisk. 

“Oh, hand over the good one then,” he said with a grin, giving it a test. “So is it something so people can get hair like yours?”

“Nobody would make a device to purposefully have hair like mine,” she replied with a shake of her head. She could just make out her reflection in the mirror and frantically started to comb her fingers through it. “Oh no! I look like I’ve been snogging!”

“You have been,” he laughed.

“Yes, but I don’t want to look as though I have! Your mother will be up any moment and then she’ll think I’m ghastly.”

“I doubt she’d notice.”

“How could she not! I look like a bramble patch.”

“But a very attractive one.”

“Oh! You’re no help!”

“How am I supposed to help? Use this thing?” he said holding up a whisk.

“Don’t you dare!” 

He pointed the whisk at her and gave a pretend menacing look. She gave a laughing shriek as he gave chase. She weaved and ducked out of his way as he pursued her, twirling the handle all the way. When he’d finally cornered her, she was quite breathless as they smiled at one another. His grin faded into that same piercing look from earlier. 

Her eyes fell to his lips, and she gave a rough swallow. He slowly wrapped a free hand around her waist, leaned down and kissed her again, this time so deeply she thought she might pass out from the pleasure of it. Their tongues began to dance with each other, and she felt a deep hunger growing within her that had nothing to do with food.

Her hand trailed up under his shirt and stroked against his solid frame, and his hand was making a similar journey up her top, just grazing the underside of her breast when the door to the shed burst open with a resounding crash.

They wrenched their lips apart, practically making a popping sound like a cork from a champagne bottle. 

Mrs Weasley was pointing her wand at them in a menacing fashion, but upon seeing their intimate hold her eyes went wide and she dropped her wand to her side. It took considerably longer to retract their hands from each other’s shirts.

“M-Mum!” 

“I was feeding the chickens when I heard what sounded like screaming,” she explained, face red. The sheepish look on her face quickly turned stern. “You two shouldn’t be doing that with all sorts of dangerous Muggle things about… Skulking about in the dark. You’re lucky neither of you ended up eklecktrified or worse! You should know better, Ronald Weasley. And what in the world is that?”

She said pointing to Ron’s hand. 

“Er… Hair curler?” Ron said.

“Well neither of you has use for that, now do you? Put it away before you poke out an eye or something.” 

Ron mutely nodded and put the whisk in its place, face a flaming red. Hermione imagined her face was a similar color, given the heat she could feel burning through her cheeks.

Mrs Weasley stood in the door and opened it, ushering the teens out and towards the house. They walked ahead and she marched behind them, until they reached the kitchen step. Ron made to open the door but Mrs Weasley gestured them to sit on a pair of weather worn wooden chairs beside the door.

“Now, you two, I understand something of young love and all that. Arthur and I weren’t much older than you when we got married. I won’t delude myself and think you’ve not… done certain things. After all you were off alone for months with no supervision, and you’re of age—”

“Merlin, Mum!” Ron bleated, face the shade of an overcooked radish. He seemed to know where his mother was going with this. Hermione was in pure denial. Surely Mrs Weasley wasn’t inferring that she and Ron had…. Had relations during the war? They’d barely snogged more than five or so times at this point. Hermione was mute with mortification.

“Honestly, Mum! We weren’t doing— Doing that.” 

“I saw you two not minutes ago! I have seven children, and I know where that sort of snogging leads! If you’re going to be taking things to that level of intimacy you really must make sure to use all the correct charms and potions.”

Hermione’s cheeks flamed as she closed her eyes tight in embarrassment.

“Now Hermione, I know you won’t have learned them from your parents, of course, but do you know about contraception charms?”

“Mum! Please stop— We weren’t—!”

“If you’re caught snogging like that by your mother, you have to put up her making sure a pair of unwed teenagers don’t make a silly mistake!” She turned again to Hermione. “Ron and all his siblings were taught this, but I want to make sure you know them too, dear. You need to use it every single time. I know some people will say it feels better without it, but that’s complete rubbish! Do you know—”

“I know them, Mrs Weasley, thank you!” Hermione said, voice unnaturally high and loud. 

“We both know them, Mum! Now can you please stop!”

“Fine! But don’t make me catch you like that again!”

“Believe me, no one wants a repeat!” Ron said with a rueful shake of his head.

“Well, that’s said then. Why don’t you tend to the chickens and get some eggs, and I’ll start on breakfast. Sausage and egg sandwiches?” Mrs Weasley asked lightly, not waiting for an answer as she went back into the house.

Hermione sunk her head into her hands. 

“So….” Ron began. “That was— ”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Hermione squeaked from behind her hands. Ron gave a laugh.

“Thank Merlin the twins didn’t hear tha—” Ron cut himself off and blanched. Hermione quickly made a movement towards him, but he’d already risen from his chair, shoulders tight. She didn’t know what to say in these moments. 

Ron took a rattling breath, and Hermione was fairly certain he was stifling a sob. What would Ron do if the situation was reversed? He’d put an arm around her, let her say anything she needed, then distract her or make a joke. She was no good at jokes, but she could hold him and distract him.

She gingerly put a hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. He wiped at his eyes.

“For a second I honestly forgot…” Ron said with a shrug. “What kind of bastard forgets their brother’s dead?”

She bit her lip. Seeing him hurt like this was painful. It would be so easy to start crying alongside him, but she refused her body’s instincts. The last thing he needed was her sobbing all over him.

“I think it was more a behavioral habit than you actually forgetting. You’re used to saying ‘the twins’ and noting what they’d find funny. It doesn’t mean you did something bad. It will take a while, but eventually your habits will change.”

“I don’t know if that’s not worse…”

Hermione didn’t see how that was worse, but thought it was best not to argue the point. 

“Well, if I want an egg sandwich, I’ll need to get Mum some eggs, won’t I?” Ron gave a deep sniff and smiled.

She hated the brittle smile he’d put on in these moments. 

It had been weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts, but Fred’s loss was still raw and painful for everyone. She couldn’t imagine the family would ever really recover. Fred and George were always ‘the twins.’ It wasn’t the first time someone had forgotten for a moment that Fred wasn’t alive and referred to the twins this way. It was probably why George had been holed up in a Muggle hotel for weeks. At first she thought he’d want to be home, surrounded by family. He hadn’t. 

The morning of Fred’s funeral George went missing. They looked all over for him, but no one could find him. When it was time for the funeral itself they kept waiting for George to arrive, or for him to pull some sort of prank in Fred’s honor, or do something like set off some fireworks, or turn the somber event into a joyous wake. He hadn’t. 

Angelina had tracked him down to a Muggle hotel and informed the family with a Patronus. A few of them had wanted to track George down, but in the end they decided to honor his wish to be alone. They thought he’d change his mind and come home, or start up the shop again. He hadn’t. 

Ron had looked so lost that day. The whole family had, but seeing Ron look so devoid of focus had been disturbing. Even on the Horcrux hunt, when all of them were dazed from the locket, he’d managed to be a bit sharp. Yes, he’d complained and been aimless as she and Harry, but he’d been present. It was the one day Ron had taken to see to himself. He’d gone to the funeral, then spent the rest of his day in his bedroom unable to talk. She’d held him for hours as he stared off into space. The next day he was back to catering to everyone and fixing everything. He was back to hyper focusing on everyone’s needs, and keeping himself so busy that he didn’t have time to mourn.

She couldn’t very well make him stay still, so she followed him to the chicken coop. She might not be able to fix anything for the Weasleys, or for anyone, but at least she could get them some eggs.


	2. Bridges and Tight Smiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to diva.gonzo/amysthefardareisma/dragon for her amazing indepth beta-ing, and Abradystrix for her lovely betaing and britpicking. Y'all are the best
> 
> And thank you to the people who have read this and reviewed- I appreciate you so very much.
> 
> **CHAPTER WARNINGS: cursing, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of suicide/ideation**

Taking watch seemed so unnecessary. Hermione's spells were amazing, and there were so many extra spells to alert them to the presence of people, why did they need to sit up late into the night staring into the woods?

The first few weeks were the hardest. His shoulder was tattered, and his sanity felt like it was in the same sorry state. Had the Ministry figured out that Ron broke in? Would his family be a target now? Were any of them maimed or dead because of him? Would it make his Mum love him less than she already did?

Ron shook his head at that last thought, and readjusted the locket. That bleeding locket. Every time he wore it he could feel it scrabbling at him. Back when he had Scabbers, one of the twins had told him about a Muggle torture where they'd put a rat on the victim's stomach, put a bucket over the rat, then heat up the bucket so the rat would chew right through them. They threatened to do that to him with Scabbers a few times before he started Hogwarts. It had frightened him, but he'd never truly understood what it could feel like until he'd put on the locket.

Every time he wore the locket he could feel it, gnawing through his chest, burrowing inside him, and shredding every piece of him apart.

The things it made him think were horrid, but worse was how it made him behave. He was used to a steady stream of vile self-loathing thoughts. What he wasn't used to was being unable to hide them. The thoughts took over his very being, and he became a complete arse when he wore it— he knew it and just couldn't seem to stop himself.

On watch he couldn't even occupy himself with doing something helpful because his whole body felt so weak. He wasn't sure if it was from his injury, hunger, or the locket— but he was completely depleted. He was useless, he could tell Harry and Hermione thought so.

Every time he told them to not say Voldemort's name they'd roll their eyes. Every time he mentioned they needed food, or a plan, they'd snap at him and talk down to him like he was a naughty three-year-old. Every time he couldn't do something because of his arm they'd scoff and act like he was making excuses. He'd always felt like a tagalong, but never more than in the last few weeks.

His one solace was that none of them were being all that useful anymore. There wasn't a plan of any sort. They had no goals. He couldn't think of a good plan, and Harry was leading them to nowhere. Meanwhile his whole family could be dead. No one cared though. Why would they? They had more important things to think of than the family of a teen so useless he couldn't so much as hold a mug in his left hand anymore. If he couldn't be a shield to them, what use was he? Why'd he ever think he meant anything to them at all? He was nothing.

Nothing, absolutely uselessly nothing.

"Ron?" he heard from the tent, startled out of his revelry. Hermione stood in the tent's entrance, but she wasn't properly bundled up for the cold. She was wearing a thin nightdress that seemed to float around her, and she looked so beautiful it made his breath catch. "What are you doing here?"

"Keeping watch," he replied, giving her a quizzical look.

"Why'd you bother coming back?"

"What?" Ron asked, looking at the locket and back to her. Where'd he gone? Oh right… He'd left them.

Harry came from the tent, looking fierce and sharp eyed.

"Why are you here?" Harry spat at him, eyes giving a faint red glow. "Hermione and I were better off without you— Always have been. Everyone sees it, why can't you?"

"Merlin, you're so pathetic," she sneered.

He didn't have an answer. The locket burned through his chest but he couldn't do anything to touch it, instead he found the sword of Gryffindor in his hand.

"You just thought you'd take a nice long holiday…" Hermione trailed off, wild hair floating about her, as she stroked a hand across Harry's chest. Ron stifled a whimper. He wouldn't cry in front of her. The locket beat as one with his heart.

"Oh Ron…" she said with a sultry pout. "The only thing you can do to stop the pain is to kill him."

Yes… All he had to do was take his sword and strike him, right through the heart and—

_Fuck this, wake up, Ron!_

He stood and he took steps towards Harry whose haughty eyes never wavered from his own. Hermione nodded and seemed to mouth to him '_yes_' as he approached with the sword. He thrust the sword forward, stabbing haltingly through the ribs of Harry's chest.

Harry's face held no malevolence now. He was back to being the scrawny specky best friend, tired, brave, kind… And now with a look of scared uncertainty on his face.

"Ron?"

Blood blossomed across Harry's chest and Hermione screamed. Harry fell in a heap and blood splattered the snow-covered ground.

_Wake up! WAKE UP!_

With a jerk of his leg Ron finally escaped. His left arm was entirely numb, and he clenched and waved it to get feeling in it again. It stuttered and halted as he tried to rotate it. He pressed fingers harshly into the scarred flesh around his shoulder, willing it to wake up. He'd dealt with his arm acting up ever since he'd gotten splinched all those months ago, but normally he could get feeling and use back into his arm if he kept at it enough. Pain streaked down his arm like a fresh burn, making him let out a hiss. Pain was better than numbness, he supposed. Though it hurt something fierce, he stretched his arm out at that one funny angle he knew worked to get his arm going again.

What a fucked up dream. He hated the ones that were rooted in something real.

He looked to the camp bed beside him and Harry was there, lying asleep, peacefully dozing away on a heavy dose of Dreamless Sleep. With that particular potion, Harry could sleep through just about anything. Ron reached over to check his friend was truly breathing, then checked his pulse and lifted the duvet to make sure there wasn't any blood. He felt like a wanker and a creep for doing it, but he was desperate for peace of mind.

He almost killed his best friend those months ago. Well, it wasn't really him— it was the locket - but for just an instant the locket almost made him do it. Harry had looked so afraid of him that night. He'd even jumped away when the sword came down on the locket, convinced for a moment that Ron truly had betrayed him, truly wanted him dead.

They'd never talked about it since, still had trouble believing Harry could fully trust him again. He'd gone on about Ron saving his life and destroying the locket, but Ron knew the truth. He was no hero. He was a snivelling bastard who'd almost killed his best friend in cold blood.

"Fuck…" Ron groaned to himself. He didn't want to go down the self-hating path for another night. It didn't do anyone any good. That's how the locket had gotten to him. Not able to come up with counterpoints to his self loathing, he got up from his too short bed.

He arranged the blankets so the bed looked occupied. When he left it looking empty Harry had the habit of seeking Ron out, and he didn't want Harry missing out on sleep. Satisfied with the composition of his pillows and bedclothes, he cast a spell to replicate some snores and snuck down the stairs.

He wished he could wake Hermione, wrap his arms around her and bury his face into her bushy hair, but she needed the rest too. Plus he didn't want to get flack from his sister for sneaking into her room to use Hermione as a comfort blanket. Instead he went to the bathroom for his morning shower.

As he waited for the water to warm he looked in the mirror. He wasn't as god-forsakenly skinny as he had been, but he still looked a right unshaved mess. He'd never seen an Inferius before, thank Merlin, but he imagined his pale skin and deep purple bags under his bloodshot eyes could make him pass for one. Stooping under the shower head that was at least half a foot too low for him, he twisted and waved his left arm some more. The feeling still hadn't entirely returned to the blasted thing. The last three fingers were almost entirely devoid of feeling except for the odd painful prickle in his pinky. Considering all that he'd done and survived it was a small penance to pay. He turned the knob until the water was so hot he turned red as a fresh boiled chizpurfle, but his arm and fingers had feeling and could finally move normally again.

Done with his shower he put on his watch and checked the time. Two fourteen… He briefly considered taking a Dreamless Sleep potion. It seemed to work for Harry. Usually Harry was mumbling or yelling out in his sleep, but since the war he had been rather quiet. Whether it was the potion or lack of the Voldemort connection, Ron wasn't sure. He didn't want to ask Harry— that'd just bring attention to the fact that he had been the loudest damned roommate to put up with over the last seven years.

Ron opened the cabinet and looked at the neat row of draughts he could easily take. No one could fault him for it. He hadn't slept a full night in weeks. He held one in his hand and nearly uncorked it before he stopped himself. What if something were to happen and both he and Harry were too out of it on potion to help? He'd never be able to forgive himself if something happened and he'd not been ready. He'd gone through that too many times this year. He'd never let it happen again.

Mind made up, he put the potion back on the shelf and went downstairs for his nightly vigil. Compared to his watches when they were on the Horcrux hunt, the ones at the Burrow were almost pleasant. Sure he was dead tired, lonely and felt a hollow pit of sadness— but he couldn't complain. If anything it gave him a chance to mourn in private. Any other time of day and he'd be surrounded by people that needed him to appear strong, but in the middle of the night, all expectations fell away. He could freely be a grouchy depressed git, and no one would have to suffer his ill moods. He was determined to never be the same arsehole he'd been with that locket around his neck.

He was able to look out into the night from inside from the comfort of home, with plenty of food to power him, and a handy clock on the mantle to tell him everyone was alright..

They'd removed Fred's clock hand when he died at some point, when Ron wasn't sure. He didn't want to ask. He'd entered the Burrow a few days after the final Battle, everything had been set right, the house was clear of dark spells and the ghoul's butchered body had been buried, his room was back to normal (aside from a few posters they'd been unable to clean the gore from) but the clock was missing Fred's golden hand.

Every night that Ron sat in their living room, four hands would point to 'home' and four would point to 'away', unless one of his brothers was visiting the Burrow or had a late night at work. Since the war had ended, no one's hand had been on 'mortal peril,' for which he was immensely grateful. He glanced up at the clock on the mantle to make sure this was still true and his stomach flipped like he'd taken a step and missed it.

George's hand was firmly set on 'prison.'

Alarm coursing through him. Ron bolted for the stairs when the familiar sound of someone apparating made him freeze. He glanced at the clock, hoping George had come home, or one of his brothers apparated to tell them all what happened. The hands stayed firmly in place.

Someone else had apparated onto their property. His family closed off their property to all but the closest of confidants with a series of wards, but without the _Fidelius Charm_ in place it was possible for people with enough power or cleverness to break through.

He saw the person's silhouette, tall and quick moving towards the kitchen door. Ill-lit by the waxing crescent moon, he couldn't tell who it was. The intruder was almost at the door. There was no time to get help. Ron was by himself. The only advantage Ron had for certain was surprise. There was no way the intruder could know Ron was awake, and in the dark, no way the intruder would have spotted him.

Ron quickly perturbed the kitchen door, and crept along the wall to the scullery. He cast a silencing spell and wrenched the window open. He threw himself through it and scrambled to fit his shoulders through the narrow opening. It felt a lot smaller than the last time he'd attempted this escape route at the age of twelve. He crept as quickly as he could around the side of the house.

He peered around the house. The stranger gasped as the perturbence spell threw their hand away from the door.

Ron steadied himself, then in a low voice cast his spell. With a noise and a burst of red light the intruder was knocked off his feet, unconscious. Ron ran to the body and wrenched it over to see the slack face of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Oh shit!" Ron cursed, taking a few steps back. He'd just cast a Stunner on the new Minister of Magic! Would he end up in prison like George? No… Of course not. It was Kingsley… He was defending his home in the middle of the night. Surely he couldn't begrudge Ron that?

"_Rennervate_!" he nervously incanted.

Kingsley gave a gasp and raised his wand, pointing it at Ron.

"Sorry... thought you were an intruder," said Ron, his wand still pointed at Kingsley.

"I gathered that," Kingsley said in his low calm voice, eyeing Ron's wand with raised eyebrows.

"You need to prove you're you. Who were you with for the Seven Potters mission?"

"Hermione. We rode a Thestral together. Who were you with?" asked Kinglsey, wand still trained on Ron.

"With Tonks," he said, voice tight at the thought of her.

They each lowered their wands.

"But really, I'm sorry 'bout the Stunner," Ron said, stooping to help Kingsley stand. He was surprised to find himself a little bit taller than the Minister.

"Nothing to be sorry about. I'd have done the exact same in your position," he said, putting away his wand and giving a wince at the movement. "I didn't expect anyone to be up."

"Yeah, well…" Ron didn't bother trying to come up with a reason. "Are you here about George?"

Kingsley nodded as he brushed the dirt from his robes. "Your mother must still have that clock of hers."

"Did he blow something up? _Someone_ up? What happened? Is he ok?" Ron prodded impatiently.

"He's safe," said Kingsley, infuriatingly enigmatic. Safe. For all that meant, George was alive but sentenced to a life in prison for Ron knew not what. Safe now. Did that mean he was unsafe before? What had George done? Ron was bursting with questions, but didn't feel he knew Kingsley well enough to feel entitled to answers. "He's not in extreme trouble either, all things considered. As for all the circumstances, I'd prefer to only tell it once. Would you like to get your parents?"

The thought of waking his brittle mother to this made Ron feel a tremble in his gut.

"I'll get Dad. Mum, she… she needs her sleep after everything..."

Kingsley nodded in agreement, following Ron into the house as he unperturbed the door and snuck upstairs to wake his father.

It was an odd sensation to sneak into his parents' room for the first time in many years. Suddenly vibrant memories of sneaking in to cuddle between his parents, and finding other siblings hogging the bed struck him as he opened the door. No matter how many kids were in their bed, they always made room for more. If they had to, they'd spell the bed wider to accommodate everyone. No one was ever turned away, no matter what.

Part of him wanted to curl into the bed and have his mum hold him and tell him all his nightmares were rubbish, there were no monsters, and everything was ok. He couldn't do it, of course. Besides the fact that he was an inch or two shy of six and a half feet and eighteen years old, he knew monsters were very real and all his nightmares were rooted in horrid memories. There also was the fact that his mother was in an incredibly fragile state, one he'd never imagined he could see her in. If anything, he should be the one holding his mum.

As gently as he could, he shook his father's arm. His dad immediately opened his eyes, but was slow to sit up, so as not to jostle the bed.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, fumbling a bit for his glasses.

"It's ok. Don't wake Mum. I need you to come downstairs. Kingsley's here," said Ron, keeping his eye on the form of his mother, hair in long braid, as she usually did for bed. She'd done that since he could remember.

His father quickly followed him, putting on a dressing gown as they went down the dark narrow hallway. Dad did the same practiced look at the family clock and gave a gasp.

"George is fine, Arthur, but that's why I'm here," said Kingsley, his voice instantly calming. "George has been arrested for apparating under the influence to the top of Tower Bridge."

"THE Tower Bridge?" Arthur spluttered, looking aghast. "There could have been hundreds of witnesses!"

"He did it so late at night that we were quite lucky. Only one person actually saw him Apparate up there and they've been Obliviated. He was seen by many other Muggles on the bridge, but they didn't see him do any magic. They called it into the Muggle police reporting there was a man on top of the bridge, and they were concerned he was a jumper— "

Dad hissed in response. For an instant Ron almost laughed. They couldn't possibly think George was going to kill himself, could they? The very thought was mental!

Someone that young wouldn't opt for death. George was only twenty— far too young for anyone to contemplate dying… But life and death decisions were the sorts everyone had been making the past few years. You could be vibrant and laughing one moment, then a lifeless corpse under a pile of debris the next. Ron could practically smell the pulverized stone, and hear Percy's wails as he held Fred. His corpse had more joy on its face than George did now.

The more he thought about it, the more terror gripped at Ron. Suicide didn't seem that far outside the realm of reality. His brother had shut down and withdrawn from everyone. The few times he'd allowed anyone to see him, which was only in Muggle places like his hotel lobby or nearby restaurants, he'd been all bloodshot eyes and dark dull looks.

George very well could be that bad off.

"He… he wasn't going to jump, was he?" Ron asked, his voice small and childlike, despite its timbre. He felt his ears turn red.

"I really don't know. He was arrested on the spot by a pair of patrol officers from the M.L.E.S. —

Magical Law Enforcement Squad," said Kingsley before turning to Dad. "I'll do everything I can to keep news of this getting around, Arthur, but I can only do so much. He still needs to be bailed out."

"Of course," Dad somberly said, dazedly turning to the stairs. "I'll… I'll just put on some clothes… I'll let Molly sleep until I know more."

"I'm coming too," Ron insisted. The thought of sitting and waiting for news at home left a clawed out pit in his stomach. He'd done enough waiting around for shitty news the past year.

"You don't need to," Dad weakly protested.

"I want to. I'm up and dressed already, and… and I won't be able to rest until I see him and know he's ok."

His father nodded in assent. Ron was glad no one had thought to ask why he was up and dressed in the middle of the night. He hadn't expected them to. Most people's odd habits were rather accepted after the war, probably because everyone was too spell shocked to take the time to notice other people and do anything about it.

He'd thought at the end of the war he'd feel relief and happiness; that he'd finally be able to smile and celebrate. So many magical folk were in that boat now. The few papers he'd looked at had smiling faces, victorious ticker tape celebrations in Diagon Alley, and people thrusting mugs into the air to toast The Boy Who Lived, victory, and whatever rubbish made people happy.

Ron had crumpled the newspapers and set them on fire the day of Fred's funeral.

This must have been what it felt like for the Order after the first war. Yeah, they won— but it felt impossible to celebrate. So many people were dead or worse. People they knew— not some random heroes… Good friends, elves, kids, his brother… All kind, good, brave people who deserved to live.

For the survivors who knew them, it was nothing but funeral after funeral, bearing witness to breakdown after breakdown… How could anyone ever laugh again without the guilt immediately coming in, let alone celebrate? Was it any wonder George was such a wreck? He thrived on laughter before Fred's death. Even on Potterwatch, on the run and Death Eaters on their tails, the twins had been hilarious and clever.

"Did you see George?" Ron asked Kingsley.

"I did, but only briefly," said Kingsley before looking at Ron and seeming to see the hungry desperation for more information. "He was very intoxicated and was dozing in a holding cell. I had him put in his own cell, and there's someone watching him for safety's sake… just in case."

In case of what? In case George actually _was _'a jumper' on that bridge? It took everything in Ron's power not to curse out loud. He and Kingsley knew one another, but not all that well and never as peers— and now Kingsley was Minister of Magic. Even if it was the middle of the night Ron didn't think it'd go over all that well to let loose a string of foul _fucks_, _shits_ and _buggers_.

"How'd you know about him getting arrested anyways?" Ron asked, trying to distract himself from thoughts of his brother's mental state.

"I made it clear to the law enforcement staff that any notable business to do with the Order of the Phoenix would always need to be brought to me. Apparating to the top of Tower Bridge would count as notable."

"Yeah, that'd just about do it," said Ron with a shake of his head, looking for a quill. He dashed off a note to the family just in case it took a while to get George out of jail. He didn't want them to wake up alarmed at not only George being imprisoned, but Ron and his dad missing as well. He supposed he could have gone up to undo the snoring charm on his bed, but decided to leave it on the off chance he'd make it back before everyone was awake.

Dad was quickly back down the stairs fully dressed, though his thin hair was sticking up as bad as Harry's in the back.

They Flooed to the Ministry, as Apparition directly into any of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement offices was strictly forbidden by those who were not official staff of the department.

It was strangely disconcerting to not be on a deadly mission, undercover, getting his brains hexed out or getting his shoulder splinched. For the past few years Ron hadn't been to the Ministry except to break in. Part of him kept expecting someone to jump out from behind a column to arrest them all. He instinctively had his wand out until Kingsley gave it a pointed look. He quickly stowed it, his face flushing.

As they went through the Atrium of the Ministry there was a significant blank spot where the disturbing '_Magic is Might_' statue had stood. Without people, and without any statue, the Atrium echoed with every footstep they took. They took a golden lift that said in a cool female voice "_Level Two, Depart of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services_."

The hairs on the back of Ron's neck prickled as they stepped off the lift. The last time Ron had been in this hallway he'd been Polyjuiced as Reg Catermole, stupidly attempting to make Yaxley's office stop raining. Nerveless clammy hands, so much smaller than his own massive ones, had shakily held his wand. If he hadn't been able to get that damned office to stop raining he could have ended up being responsible for the imprisonment, and perhaps even death, of Mary Cattermole. Then, just when he thought his day couldn't get more mad, his Dad had stepped into the lift.

Tension and relief had become so intermingled that he didn't know which he was feeling. For the smallest moment he had felt the childlike impulse to run up and hug his Dad, babbling about how fucked up everything was, to have his level-headed father fix it all. He'd know what to do about the Cattermoles, Yaxley, the Horcruxes— all of it!

It could have been the last time he ever saw his father. Between him, Harry and Hermione, Ron knew he was the one who would most likely die on their mission given his track record. If he could at least give his dad one last hug or find out the family was all ok… But there was no doing any of that. If he fucked up, he could get Harry and Hermione killed. He could doom _everyone_ by being an overly emotional tit. He hadn't dared to look his father in the eye. If he had started, he didn't think he would have been able to stop from openly staring and trying to drink in one last look at his Dad. No, it had been be so much safer to just stare at his shoulder and get the fuck away as soon as he could. So Ron had avoided his father's gaze, gave his thanks for the Charm help, and darted off from the elevator, not sparing a backwards glance.

"We'll be going to the M.L.E. Court and Justice Center," his father said, bringing Ron back to the present.

With a shake of his head, he made himself focus up. The war was over. He didn't have to worry about any more 'this may be the last time I see you' moments. At least he hoped so. He had his Dad right at his side, in the same corridor, and he could say or do whatever he needed to. After all, Ron had survived all that stupid shit, somehow— others hadn't. He didn't even know if the Cattermoles were alive… and he hadn't thought of them in months. What a selfish sod he was.

Not far down the corridor was the '_Magical Law Enforcement Court and Justice Center',_ behind a large pair of oaken doors adorned in ostentatious carvings of medieval looking witches and wizards in various noble poses levitating scales of justice. It opened into an equally fine marbled room with many doors to courtrooms, offices and more, empty of everyone but a lonely old mustachioed guard nodding off in the corner.

Going through a door that read '_Prisoner Detention and Processing Center_' the feeling was instantly different. The long arched dark-bricked room felt almost intentionally grubby, with rickety wooden seating screwed into the cheap tiled floors. At the back of the room were a series of formal wooden counters, all empty save a few exhausted-looking officials. Next to them sat a giant metal door that more resembled a Gringott's vault.

The rest of the sad-looking room looked like it could use a good scrubbing. Along the wooden rows of seats sat a few tired individuals filling out forms or listlessly staring at vault-like door for a loved one to finally be let free from jail. There was one young woman with three sleeping children piled around her as she filled out her form.

Ron accidentally caught her eye and gave a tight smile of acknowledgement. She gave a gasp and stared at him with wide eyes, seemingly recognizing him. For someone who barely was recognized by his own professors at school it was an odd sensation to have a stranger stare at him so. But then Ron realized he was with Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister of Magic. That must have been it, then. She was actually looking at Kingsley. Giving a wry smile at his own folly, he followed his father and Kingsley to the counter.

The surly paunchy woman sitting behind the counter sat up and gave a similar gasp as soon as she saw them.

"Mr Minister, sir!" she spluttered, sitting up high in her seat as a few purple forms flew out from around her. "H-how can I help you, sir?"

"We're here regarding a Mr. George Weasley. I'd like him processed for release as quickly as possible."

"Oh, yes, of course!" she said, gathering some forms and putting them on a clipboard with a little inkwell and quill at the top. She gave Kingsley a smile, but it had an unnatural set to it, as if she wasn't very used to smiling at all.

The packet of forms she'd gathered was formidable, and Ron could see his father looking at it with grim determination.

"Maybe I can help fill them out," said Ron, looking it over.

His dad shook his head and pointed to the top of the form— they had to be filled and signed by whoever was helping post the bail, and only them.

"Why don't Ron and I get us all some tea?" Kingsley offered. Having nothing better to do and feeling utterly useless, Ron nodded and followed Kingsley out of the processing center and down the hall to Auror Headquarters.

"I've been wanting to have a talk with you," said Kingsley as soon as they entered the hall.

Ron almost looked around him to see if Harry was there.

"We'll be needing your testimony soon for a few Death Eater trials, as well as Harry and Hermione's testimonies…"

"Oh yeah— yeah, whatever you need," Ron hastily said, putting his hands in his pockets to stop himself from swinging them at his side.

"Thank you, we all will appreciate that."

As far as talks go this one seemed rather benign. It was not like he couldn't have just said that on their way to the Detention Center.

They went past a number of cubicles to a small interview room with a cheery window displaying a sunny summer day outside the window, despite it being the middle of the night.

"I think we have a hangover potion somewhere here, too," Kingsley said, looking around the room in a few cabinets. "So, Ron, now that the war's over, do you have some plans for your future?"

Ron wasn't used to attention being on him like this and felt his ears go a bit red. The only thing he could picture in his future was Hermione, but he couldn't very well tell Kingsley that.

"I haven't been thinking much about the future, to be honest. Been more… just surviving, y'know?"

"I do, yes," Kingsley said before giving a low '_aha!_' and taking out a small blue hexagonal potion bottle clearly labelled _Hollace's Hangover Cure_. "I imagine it will take a lot of time and rebuilding before that feeling of 'just surviving' goes away. Not just for us individuals, but our whole world. There's so much work we need to do to stabilize it, and give people faith in the institutions they once took for granted."

"Yeah, well it doesn't help the Ministry's been filled with a bunch of corrupt blood purists and puffed-up cowards," said Ron, going over to the tea station and beginning to make a pot. "At the beginning of the war I thought, 'people wouldn't let all that anti-Muggleborn stuff happen,' but they did. It all fell apart in days."

"The difference is that we now have a real chance to fundamentally improve our departments with better personnel. Most of the blood purists and corrupt individuals are in prison awaiting trial," said Kingsley, taking a seat on the edge of the sturdy oak table. "Of course, this means our government is gutted. The Auror department for example is very depleted, and we will be needing new Aurors to help round up all the loose Death Eaters, and other people who need to come to justice."

Ron nodded along, still a bit uncomfortable being alone with the Minister of Magic, even if it was just Kingsley.

"Making sure all our Aurors are honest men and women, aren't blood purists, and are able to put up with the rigors of the job… It's not easy to find good candidates."

"Yeah, I can imagine."

"A lot of young witches and wizards fancy becoming Aurors when they're young, but put them into battle simulations and they drop out rather quickly when faced with the reality of it. You've been living in those conditions for months on end, so you understand just how gruelling it can be."

''You mean barely making it to the end of the day with four limbs?" Ron said with a snort, giving his bad arm a bit of a stretch. "Yeah, not exactly something I'd recommend to most people."

"Well most people don't have your skill set. Tonks went on for days about your abilities at Harry's removal from his home last summer."

"She did, did she?" said Ron, a sad smile forming as he thought of Tonks and her infectious enthusiasm.

"She and Remus mentioned you'd shown interest in becoming an Auror."

"I… I have… I mean… I did."

Ron swallowed roughly. He didn't remember ever talking it over with them. Then again, most of the adults of the Order never had much to say to him. And he'd certainly never thought he was someone the adults ever discussed when he wasn't around. The only time they seemed to actually consider him was when they asked if he was willing to fly in that Seven Potters debacle the prior summer. Even then he was '_just another Weasley decoy._' Even Fred and George took the piss from him, saying he was just another spare Weasley for the mission.

"Given your experience and skills, I think you'd be a wonderful addition to the Aurors."

Ron's mouth gaped open. "Wha—? Me?"

"Of course."

"But they're… To be an Auror you have to be a true elite. You've got to be great at dueling, smart, a pro at defense," he rambled, going red when he realized he was explaining it to Kingsley, of all people.

Kingsley had an indulgent smile on his face.

"Sounds like your credentials, then. Plus you've probably participated in more battles than some of our current Aurors.''

At one point, not all that long ago, Ron would have beamed at such a comment. He found himself feeling more grim. He didn't like how many battles he'd been in. He wished he could have avoided them all, really.

"Now, I know you were interested in the Aurors before the war, but I wasn't sure if you were you wanting to join because Harry was, or is this a career you were seriously considering for _yourself_."

All the decisions Ron had made the last seven years seemed to be based around Harry or Hermione. He couldn't think of any of them that were _just _for him…

"A bit of both, I guess… It's always been Harry and me."

"But if it were just you, would this still be a career you'd want?"

No one had asked him what he wanted before. Not really. The only time he could think of was when he became Prefect and his mother had asked what he wanted as a gift. That had been overwhelming, and it was fairly trivial. This was a whole career!

In his career orientation with McGonagall she'd just sort of skimmed over it, her mouth going tight and an unimpressed look on her face when he said he was considering becoming an Auror. She'd gone off about what he'd need to qualify for it, and by the end of their meeting it seemed like insurmountable odds for him to ever become one. She was quick to let him know that should he fail to acquire high enough test scores, there were plenty of jobs other than Auror he could qualify for… He couldn't think of a single thing he was good at beyond chess, and last time he checked, that wasn't a career option. But here was the Minister of Magic, an ex-Auror, saying he was good enough.

He realized he'd been quiet a long time when the kettle began to whistle.

Kingsley seemed to sense Ron's mind had completely seized, and continued talking as Ron fumbled with the tea.

"So what do you say? You're as battle-ready as anyone and highly trusted— Of course the other side of it is, you've been through quite a lot in the past few years. To subject yourself to any more battles and duels... I'm not saying the Aurors are in non-stop battles, of course, but it can come with the job, and I'd understand if you'd want to steer clear of it."

Ron could walk away and odds were, he'd never have to participate in a duel to the death again. The idea was terribly tempting. He had no fucking clue what he'd do instead, or what he'd be any good for really— but he could take his time and figure it out.

"Are you…" Ron blanched and rephrased. "You're going to talk to Harry about this too."

"Yes. And a few others your age as well, such as Hermione and that Neville Longbottom. Really any of the of-age students who participated in the Battle of Hogwarts and survived it would be excellent candidates. But you, Harry and Hermione truly are the elite, in my opinion."

Harry he knew was destined for this, no matter how much Ron wished his friend would stay out of danger— that just wasn't him. Neville was never someone he'd have thought of for the Aurors, but he'd more than proved he had the grit for it. Hermione… Ron hated the idea of her stepping into danger ever again. She had just as much ability as anyone, and had been fighting right alongside Ron all those years— but he still thought of her as an innocent somehow who wasn't as hard and fucked up as him and Harry, or even Neville.

"Maybe you shouldn't ask Hermione," Ron found himself saying out loud.

Kindsley's eyebrows raised. "Oh?"

Ron flushed, knowing he'd overstepped. She'd hate him for saying something like that to Kingsley. "She's brilliant, of course, and could be an amazing Auror, but it's not what she's meant to do… She's meant to— to change the world or something. She could organize and set up the whole Ministry better than anyone, save house elves… You know, stuff like that."

"You'd prefer her safely behind a desk."

"Merlin's balls, yes!" Ron blurted before he could stop himself. "Sorry… Yes…"

"You can curse with impunity in my company," Kingsley said with a laugh, before sobering. "I'll still put forth an invitation to her for the Aurors, but I do agree— her particular skill set would do very well on the bureaucratic side of things."

"That's all I'm saying," Ron said, hand defensively raised. "I mean, of course I want to keep her away from all the action as much as I can. In the end she'll do what she wants and I'd never stop her, but really she'd be so much happier doing law-makery things and getting to use that big brain of hers. She's just not meant to be out there dodging curses and dealing with all that shit out there!"

"Are you?"

Ron hesitated.

He was so tired… but there was so much that needed to be done, so many people that needed to be hunted down so Muggleborns like Hermione could be safe. Harry would never stop, and Ron didn't think he could either, not yet at least. Thinking critically on his skill set, and not letting his insecurity rule the decision, he probably could hold his own as an Auror. Enough to watch Harry's back at least.

"Been doing my fair share of it for about seven years now… what's a few more?" he said with a shrug before his eyebrows shot up. "I haven't got any NEWTs though!"

"I'm temporarily relaxing those requirements."

"Then yeah… I'm in."

"You don't have to commit yourself now, of course. This is an important decision and I want you to take all the time you need."

Ron nodded, but his mind was already made up.

"We'd need to do just a bit of training so you're familiar with laws and everything before you're fully qualified. About seven months or so for those of you who qualify for the abbreviated training, but deputy Aurorship could start as soon as a week from now. I have some paperwork about it all to send to you, Harry and the others. You can expect it in the next day or so."

"Thanks."

With Ron's future decided, they made their way back to the Processing Center with hot tea in hand.

They found his Dad sitting where they'd left him, but he was missing the clipboard of paperwork.

"Almost done?" asked Ron.

"They're processing him. Should be done any minute," said his Dad with a wan mirthless smile. Everyone in Ron's family seemed to be a master of this smile: a 'things are fucked— what can I be but polite, and give you the worst shitty close mouthed grimace of an upturned mouth there is' smile.

"I'll see if I can hurry things along before I leave," said Kingsley, putting the hangover potion on the seat beside Ron.

His Dad thanked Kingsley, who gave a nod and went to talk to the same woman as before.

"You two were gone a while," said Dad, reaching a freckled hand over to take tea from Ron.

"Yeah, Kingsley wanted to talk to me…" Ron leaned over in his seat to put his elbows on his knees. "He asked me to join the Aurors."

His father's eyes widened a bit, but that was the only indication of surprise he showed as he took a long pull of tea.

"Did you give him an answer?" he hesitantly asked.

"I told him yes."

His Dad nodded before closing his eyes and sitting back to rub his fingers under his glasses.

"You think I should've turned him down?" Ron asked, suddenly uncertain.

"No… No, I wouldn't expect you to do that," said his Dad, giving a shake of his head.

"You wouldn't? Cause I considered it…"

"No," he said simply, taking another long sip of tea. That same tight smile was back on his Dad's face, making Ron's stomach feel cold and heavy.

"Why?"

"Because out of all my children, you are the one who always runs headfirst after danger if you think it might help someone."

Ron gave him an incredulous look. "All of us Weasleys are like that…"

"Well we all face danger head on when it comes at us, and do our part to help a righteous cause, but you? You're the one Weasley who's been chasing adventures down since the age of eleven."

"I've not!" Ron protested, feeling a rush of anger. He wasn't some adrenaline junky or glory hound. "Who the hell wants to do and see all the stupid bloody things I have? I'm not out there '_adventuring for fun_' or whatever. If I never saw another bit of action again, it'd be fine by me!"

His dad had a rueful look on his face. "I should've phrased it better. It's not about you seeking out _adventure_ to satisfy a selfish urge . It's about doing what's right. If there's the wildest hope some action of yours will help, you put your life on the line to do it. Sometimes I wish it was someone else's child who would step up instead, but…"

"Other people's children _are_ stepping up," said Ron, thinking of people like Harry, Hermione and Neville.

His Dad gave a sigh and put a hand to the back of his neck. He looked so weary and aged, and so very tired.

Ron hated that he'd made his dad's night even worse. "M'sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be sorry!" his Dad said with a small smile. "You should be proud of yourself! Being offered Aurorship when you haven't even graduated from school? It's quite an accomplishment."

He wasn't so sure. The bracing talk from Kingsley seemed to be fading, and the nerveless anxiety of not being enough wormed its way to the surface. After all, Kingsley was offering the position to tons of people.

"You've done _so_ much," said Dad.

Ron gave a shake of his head and stared at his trainers. He'd barely scraped out of the war alive, and had a long list of failures: leaving the hunt, almost killing Harry, failing to save Hermione at the Manor, failing to save Fred. He failed so much and so many people.

"I'm very, very proud of you, Ron," said his father, hand clapping hard onto Ron's scarred forearm. Ron looked up from his hand to see his father had tears in his eyes.

Ron had never had his Dad look him in the eye and say something like that before. Sure, he'd congratulated him a couple of times, said he loved him and such. This was very different from those times. There were so many unsaid things in his father's look. There was a world-weary sadness shining in his father's eyes - fierce pride, fear for everything Ron had faced before, would face in the future, and so much fatherly love.

Ron felt his eyes prick with tears, and he had to look away to keep them from falling.

"Can't blame me for hoping you'd retire from danger, can you?" his Dad said, with a sniff.

Ron gave a short laugh.

"I'll be careful… I really will," Ron said, though he knew it wouldn't do anything to calm his Dad's worries.

"I know," his father said before slumping in his chair. "Oh, your mother is going to be a wreck…"

The two of them groaned at the thought.

Ron wasn't sure if she'd be proud or worried sick. Both? Either way he was fairly certain she'd be crying and screaming about it. He wasn't looking forward to that.

The sudden loud clanking of the metal door opening made them both stand up. A very scruffy looking George stumbled forward, not looking either of them in the eye as he approached, an M.L.E.S. officer at his side. He swayed a bit, and stank of alcohol and body odor. He'd looked awful coming through the door, but this was nothing compared to up close. Ron hadn't seen him in a week, and he doubted George had showered or shaved since he'd seen him last. Even at the end of the battle, completely encrusted in gunk and debris, George had looked better than this.

"Well, Mum always thought we'd end up in jail," George said with a humorless smile. Ron winced at his use of 'we.' George hadn't completely stopped using 'us' and 'we' since Fred died, and every time he slipped up it hurt.

"You two able to take him from here?" the officer asked, looking thoroughly done as George patted him on the shoulder and gave him a goofy smile.

"Yes, I signed the paperwork. We'll take him home," his Dad answered. The officer quickly extracted himself from George's grasp, straightened his uniform, and went back through the door. "Let's go home, son."

"Fat fucking chance," said George, before he let out a creaky wheezing laugh that sounded so foreign and callous, Ron couldn't believe it'd come from his brother. "Morning, Dad."

"Yes, what a wonderful morning it is," their Dad said, fixing George with a withering glare that made Ron step back.

George stupidly blinked at him, before giving another cackle.

"And Ron! You're here too! It's a fucking family re-nunion. Onion? Reooonion. That's it. How are you?"

"Spiffing," said Ron with a roll of his eyes. George reached up and put an arm around Ron's left shoulder. The sudden weight of his brother, along with the inches of height difference, made Ron stoop over in an uncomfortable lurch that made his shoulder throb in pain. "Merlin you reek, George."

"'S'no way to talk to your older brother!"

"Let's go," said Dad, putting a hand on George's elbow which he quickly shrugged off.

"D'rather sit in that cell!"

"George, I signed a surety bond that said we'd stay with you until you were sober. The bond keeps you from being able to Apparate or Floo, or even travel at more than five kilometers per hour on your own until you're sober. There's literally no way you can travel on your own right now, aside from walking."

An ugly mutinous look passed over George's face.

"M'not going to the Burrow."

"Then where do you want to go?" asked Dad with more patience than Ron could have managed.

George closed his eyes and swayed so far back that Ron thought he might fall over, but he miraculously kept his footing.

"Dunno," he said, letting out a big sigh. "I can't handle… I don't wanna be home, okay?"

"How about your hotel?" asked Ron.

George leaned back again, and Ron hissed with pain as his brother's weight twisted his arm at a funny angle a second time. The silence went on for a long time before George said, "I dunno…"

George gave another laugh and looked around as if he'd accomplished something.

Ron had to keep himself from throttling his brother.

"We're taking you to your hotel then," said Dad. They limped along with George until they were clear of the Anti-Apparition spells at the Department of Law Enforcement. They simultaneously side-alonged George to his hotel room, where he promptly threw up in the middle of the floor.

The smell of his sick was nothing compared to the smells hitting them from the room. Trays of food were growing mold and had flies surrounding them, molding towels and clothes were all over the room, and it smelled so awful Ron nearly was sick himself. Even half the bed had plates and other detritus on it.

"Oh George…" said Dad looking around the room. He gave a shake of his head and banished the filth from the bed so Ron could lay George down.

"Do you think we can get him into a new room?" Ron asked.

"It is a bit late in the night for that… Plus it's a Muggle hotel, so that complicates payments quite a lot."

Ron looked around the room, realizing how much work it would take to clear it of mess if he was to try and keep the various plates and towels instead of just banishing them all, when he saw the extra door in the room.

"George, where does that door go?"

"Wha'door?" his brother moaned, eyes closed tight.

"The one next to the-the shiny box thingy on the table."

"Telly."

"Yeah, tell me."

George gave a grunt and opened his eyes enough to roll them.

"Box thingy's a telly, sod!"

"Oh it's a tellyvision!" Dad enthused.

"Not now!" Ron gritted out. "The door next to the telly-thingy. It goes to another room, yeah?"

George gave an unhelpful shrug.

"What are you thinking, Ron?" asked Dad.

"I'm thinking we can break into the room next door and put George up there for tonight— meanwhile we can clean up his original room."

"When room service is available we can get some clean sheets and such for this room," Dad replied.

Ron gave a nod and did a _Hominum Revelio_ on the room next door. It was thankfully empty. They unlocked the door and floated George over. Despite his weak protests, he was asleep and snoring away within minutes.

Cleaning the grotesque room was a task akin to the scrubbing of Grimmauld Place, but they found their rhythm, and by the time the sun was close to rising, the room was clean enough that Muggle housekeepers could easily see to clearing away the now spotless dishes and stack of still slightly mildewy, but folded, towels.

Out of anything to do, father and son sat on the end of the semi-clean bed that still needed new sheets.

"Well, that's about as done as we can do until the housekeeping staff is available," said Dad, giving his glasses a polish. "You should probably get back home. I can stay here and tend to George."

"No I'll stay," Ron volunteered. He didn't like the idea of returning to the house with nothing to occupy him, or worse, having to tell his mother what happened to George. "You have to work today, don't you? And I don't have anything."

"I suppose it's best I tell your mother anyways."

"Or maybe we could put off telling her?" Ron asked hopefully. "I mean, she's just now doing okay…"

"It'd be difficult for her to not find out in some way, though," said Dad with a shake of his head. "There's no way I can lie to her about something like this."

"Well, maybe we can put it off until everything with George is a bit more settled?"

Dad gave a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I... suppose. If she hasn't seen the note you left yet."

George chose that moment to stumble into the room, squinting at them.

"Well, I need to get a move on if I'm to retrieve that note before your mother sees it… Going to be a long day," Dad said, giving a low grunt as he stiffly rose.

"Sorry," George mumbled.

"Yes, well, we have a lot to discuss later, don't we?" said Dad, lips forming a tight line, before Disapparating from the room. Ron and George were alone, the latter pale and wincing at the lights of the room.

Ron got the hangover potion from his pocket and handed it to George, who downed it in one go and immediately regained the color in his face.

"Oh that's loads better," he said, standing tall, though still many inches shorter than Ron.

George looked around the room, embarrassed and most likely stunned to be able to see the floor.

"Thanks for cleaning up… getting me and all... "

Ron gave a nod, not quite able to bring himself to look his older brother in the eye. It was easy enough to just go through the motions and clean a room up, but now, just sitting still, it was a lot harder not to feel the dangerous stillness in the room, or to ignore how wrecked George looked.

He imagined his brother on top of the bridge, drunkenly swaying on the edge. His throat tightened until he could barely swallow. He wanted to ask George about it. Wanted to push him against the wall and tell him what a sorry sod of a brother he was, and drag him back to the Burrow. Or just hug him tight and beg him to be ok.

"You — you need some tea," Ron mumbled, looking about the room for a kettle, and willing his eyes to stay dry. Spying a plastic kettle in the corner, he waffled about with the unlabelled buttons on it, but nothing happened. It took a lot of prodding before he realized it wasn't plugged in. "And you need a shower. You smell like a troll."

"Of the two of us, at least I don't look like one," George replied with a frown.

"I can get us some food and tea while you're showering," he said, ignoring the dower look on George's face. "How do I do that room service thing?"

"With the phone— but I'm not wasting my time trying to teach someone thick as you how to use it."

"I know how!" Ron answered back, more curtly than he intended, taking the phone off the receiver. It had been years since he'd touched a phone, but all the loud sounds he'd detested then were the same with this phone. It made the familiar horrid tone in his ear. This one didn't have the dial of numbers like the one he'd used in Ottery St Catchpole, just plastic buttons. "What's the number?"

"Zero..." said George, looking at him with a scrutinizing look. He sat down heavily beside Ron. "When'd you learn to use a phone?"

Ron put his hand over the receiver. "Like four years ago. Hermione and I practiced using the phone every summer since third year."

Ron pressed the zero button, and the phone made a sound signaling a connection was in progress. A clipped female voice answered.

"_Here at Crandon Inn, your comfort is our pleasure—"_

George did a wanking gesture as the woman said pleasure. Ron worked hard to swallow a laugh and keep his composure.

"Er, yeah, I need to order— " Ron began, but the voice on the other line barged ahead.

"_To speak with the front desk press 1. To speak with guest services press—"_

"When did all this '_phone practice'_ take place?" George asked. "I _know_ we would have taken the mickey for calling Hermione every summer. How'd you keep it from us?"

"You never paid attention to me," Ron said shortly, putting the phone back to his ear.

" — _ning press five. For travel accommodation services press—"_

"I've always paid very close attention," said George. "At least when there was something as juicy as 'phone practice with Hermione' to make fun of."

"_To speak with billing press seven. To speak with maintenance press eight._"

"What button do I press for food?" Ron stage whispered to his brother who was smirking.

"I thought you said you knew how to work a phone."

"I do! I missed the number because you've been talking nonstop! Which number?"

"Press nine."

Ron pressed nine.

"_Here at Crandon Inn, your comfort is our pleasure. To speak with the front desk press 1. To speak with guest services press 2."_

Ron pressed the button again, but all the menu did was repeat itself.

"Are you sure it's nine?"

"Yeah," George said with raised eyebrows. "At least I _think_ it's nine for food."

"You had a million plates in here! How do you not know the number by now?" Ron groused.

"Press nine again. It should work."

"_Here at Crandon Inn, your comfort is our pleasure. To speak with the front—"_

"It's just repeating itself again."

"Are you _sure_ you pressed nine?"

"Yes!"

Ron pressed nine a few times for emphasis.

"_Here at Crandon — Here at Crandon — Here at Crandon — Here at Crandon Inn, your comfort is our pleasure. To speak with the front desk press one."_

"Once more. With feeling!" George said wearing, a broad smile on his face, leaning over to press the button for Ron.

"Oh you arsehole! Fuck off before I hex you!"

Ron gave a scowl and aimed an ill-aimed punch at George. Even in his dehydrated state, George was able to easily dodge him and scamper to the bathroom, a grin on his face.

"You better be showering in there, because you've been making my eyes water!"

It wasn't until the water was running, and food was ordered, that Ron realized he'd seen his brother genuinely smile with mischief in his eyes for the first time in a month. It was irksome that George acting normal meant Ron was a target for teasing, but he'd much rather that than any alternatives.

The food arrived, as well as new sheets, by the time George had finished his long shower.

George had little to say as he began his meal at the desk, so Ron sat across from him on the bed and went off for a while about what he'd been up to at the Burrow as well as his and Kingsley's chat.

"So you're going to be an Auror?" George asked rather quietly.

Ron gave a shrug. "Yeah, looks like it."

"Well at least I have three years to get used to it... That's how long the training is, yeah?"

"Usually, but… He's cutting it all short. I'd be a Deputy Auror in a week or so as soon as I fill out all the paperwork. Full fledged Auror in like seven months."

"But— But you're only seventeen!" George spluttered, dropping his egg-laden fork.

"Eighteen," he replied, warily eyeing his brother.

George abruptly pushed his chair away from the desk and paced to the window. He wrenched open the curtains and stared at the view, his arms crossed.

"Why you?" George rasped out, before turning around to glare at Ron. "Like, why the fuck would Kingsley ASK _you_?"

Ron's fist clenched, and the cold uncertain feeling swam its way down from his stomach to his feet.

"You're only a kid! He can't be serious! You've only just barely survived this stupid bloody war, and he's trying to put you on the front-line again, and doesn't even have the decency to properly train you!"

"He said he reckoned I'm— I'm good enough given what all I've been up to…" Ron muttered, feeling his earlier confidence shattering under George's acerbic gaze.

"And you! You stupid wanker, you said yes!" George swore, kicking over a chair before giving the wall a hard punch that left a dent in it.

Ron didn't dare move from the bed as he watched his brother's furious reflection in the window. He wished his own senses would flood with anger at the insination he was basically curse fodder. He wished he had a ready defense of his abilities and that he could proudly state 'of _course_ Kingsley chose _me_, I'm fucking amazing.' There was nothing but roiling uncertainty and hurt washing over him. He couldn't be mad and couldn't defend himself with conceit he didn't feel at all entitled to. Would it be this way with everyone he told of the Aurorship? Them mourning him as a lost cause or raging at him because they knew he'd fail?

"Do you want me to go?" Ron asked, carefully rising from the bed. George didn't make a sound, but turned and strode towards him, the same raging look on his face. Ron flinched, readying himself for a blow that never came. Instead he found his ribs crushed into an embrace. Shocked, it took a moment for Ron to free his arms enough to hug his brother back.

"You better keep yourself safe," George mumbled into his shoulder, his hold painfully tight.

"Course," Ron swallowed.

George finally broke the embrace, but kept a hand firmly clamped on Ron's shoulder, finally looking him in the eye. "I mean it."

"I know," Ron said, his voice tight.

"Blimey… An Auror… And you didn't even finish school!" George said, a small smile on his face. "Become Ronnie the _War Hero_ and they just offer you the prestigious jobs, hmm? "

Ron looked to the ground, blanching at the title of hero.

George elbowed Ron in the side a bit. "I might not be as heroic as you, but maybe I can finagle an attaché position or something."

"Kingsley's offering it to anyone who fought at the Battle of Hogwarts and is of-age. I'm nothing special."

"Oh c'mon, Ron," said George, giving a roll of his eyes.

Ron just stared at him. There was nothing to say. They both knew it was true. Ron might have stood beside a lot of special people, but there was absolutely nothing special about him.

"Want to show me how this tellything works?" Ron asked, walking to the box and tapping on some of the buttons that didn't seem to do anything.

"Naw, I'm knackered," said George, taking his wand and spelling his fist print out of the wall. "I'm just going to sleep last night off. You should go home and get some sleep yourself."

"I'm fine, I can stay."

"To watch me sleep?" George asked, before crossing his arms. "Or are you just wanting to play babysitter?"

Ron didn't have a proper answer for that, and knew his worry was showing on his face.

"I'm fine, Ron."

"Then why'd you go to that bridge?" Ron hoarsely asked. He hadn't really meant to say it. He didn't want to push his brother too far.

"I dunno. I was pissed," said George in a hardy sort of voice. He tousled a hand through his hair before giving a forced smile. "Had a right nice view, didn't it?"

Ron didn't smile back, and his brother's expression faded into a hard look.

"You'd better get back to the Burrow, before Mum worries," said George. He sat on his bed and turned out the lights with a flick of his wand, leaving the open window curtain the only light in the room. "Get yourself some real food instead of this hotel muck."

"You could come round and have some real food too."

George bit his lip before giving an uttered, "Maybe…"

Ron stood frozen. "You won't do last night again, will you?"

"You mean get pissed as all fuck? Yeah I imagine I will," George bit out, but his expression softened when he looked at Ron again. "Not doing it anytime today, though. I'll… just be here."

That had to be good enough.

Ron leaned down to give his brother a hug that was lightly returned.

"Now fuck off, I need to sleep." said George, giving him a flash of teeth and a punch to the arm.

Ron closed the window curtain to enclose the room in darkness, and Apparated to his room at the Burrow.

The bed was still arranged to look like he was asleep in it with the snoring spell sawing away in a passable imitation. He stopped the snoring spell, put his wand on the bedside dresser, pushed the blankets out of the way, and stripped down to his boxers. As he laid down he felt his whole body sag with relief to finally rest a bit.

He had just begun to pull his covers into place when the door quietly opened.

"Oh good, you're awake!" Harry had a tenuous smile on his pale face. He was looking rather relieved and in need of cheering. As tired as Ron was, and as much as his body protested, he sat up and gave a squinty eyed smile in return.

"Yep, I'm awake!" Ron tried to enthuse.

"We put some breakfast aside for you with a warming charm," said Harry, sitting on the camp bed.

"Cheers," said Ron with a nod.

"I think this was the first time you've had a lie-in since last summer. Makes things feel a touch more normal."

Ron gave a distracted hum and grabbed the jeans he'd just been wearing moments ago, jerking them on to avoid Harry's gaze.

"Ginny thought it might do us some good to leave the house a bit today."

"Sounds good. You haven't been out of the house except for funerals and Hogwarts rebuilding," said Ron, looking about for the shirt he'd been wearing earlier.

"And you've not left here except to see George last week…" Harry added, speculatively eyeing him. "So maybe we could _all_ go out somewhere."

"Yeah fine."

Ron finally spied his shirt. It was wadded up in the low-ceilinged corner just beyond Harry's camp bed and knelt down to retrieve it.

"Maybe we can all go down to the village?" asked Harry.

Ron's voice suddenly felt strangled. "The village?"

A skittering frenzy of fear lapped at him. His fists clenched and he rose so sharply he immediately bashed his head against the ceiling with a horrible crash that left him seeing stars.

"You okay?" Harry asked with a laugh, giving Ron's back a pat.

A chill went up his spine at the touch on his back. He quickly lurched away from it, nearly punching out at Harry, but covered the action by giving his head a rub.

"Yeah, I'm just..." Ron managed to let out, tightly gripping his shirt and willing himself not to freak out because he'd been touched. "Just too bloody tall for this room."

"You're too bloody tall in general," said Harry, a grin on his face. "If not the village, we could play Quidditch or see how the Lovegood's rebuild is coming?

"Quidditch sounds good," Ron answered, putting his shirt on and hoping he sounded casual. Harry idly chatted about what he'd been doing that morning, giving no mention of George or Ron's mum. Dad must have gotten back in time to get rid of the note. Even if he was entirely sleep deprived Ron felt immense relief that he wouldn't have to deal with _that_ business anymore for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you enjoyed this please let me know in the review section! :)


	3. Logistics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To catch you up in case you forgot- Last chapter Ron has a nightmare and his splinched arm is acting up, helped his dad get George from the Ministry for apparating under the influence, agreed to join the Aurors, and had a super bad reaction to mentions of the village and Harry touching his back. :(
> 
> **Huge thanks to @abradystrix @amysthefardareismai for wonderful beta-ing- truly y’all are the best. And thank you to the people who have read this, and especially those who reviewed- I appreciate you so very much.**
> 
> **CHAPTER WARNINGS:**NSFW scene, cursing, depresssed/anxious thinking, talk about eating & weight gain/loss, PTSD, brief mentions of substance abuse

A breeze was gently rustling the trees and the dappled midmorning light shone merrily through the bedroom window. Hermione inwardly cursed. There was something appalling about a lovely day when her mood was bleak and her whole body felt stiff. Hermione rubbed at her neck and cringed as a beam of sunlight hit her right in the eye.****

She’d put off planning to retrieve her parents for three weeks, but she couldn’t in good conscience keep it up. She had to accomplish something, even if it was only a tiny milestone. She’d set herself up in her camp bed, a number of papers around her as she scribbled maths and tried to mark out a plan.

Portkey. Taxi. Hotel. Food. Yellow pages. Government records. Private investigator.

Before the hunt for Horcruxes she’d envisioned immediately flying to her parents and undoing the memory modifications she’d placed on them. The three of them would fall into a heap crying over each other and all would be well.

Now she could no longer fool herself into believing such idealistic outcomes. The reality was too grim. 

She’d purposefully made it difficult for anyone magical to find her parents, but now she had no clue where in Australia they’d gone or how she’d retrieve them. At the time she didn’t want to know their location; what she didn’t know couldn’t be tortured out of her, but this left the task of hunting them down as daunting as the Horcrux hunt. She’d made her parents untraceable by owl, ‘Point Me’ and a variety of other locating spells and potions.

She’d need to use Muggle means: searching travel documents and yellow pages for dentist offices, possibly making inquiries with the government to find them. She might need to use a private eye. None of that would be easy to access, especially all the way in Australia.

What’s more - it would cost money; money that Hermione did not have. Her parents had loads of money put aside for her education, but all of it was in her parents’ name — so it was all somewhere in Australia with them. 

She only had fifty pounds and a pile of books to her name, not enough to buy proper groceries for the Weasley family, let alone fly herself across the world to search for her parents. Portkey fare, hotel, food… It was all going to cost so much. How would she possibly manage this? Get a job to save up the money to travel there? Who would hire someone who didn’t even have N.E.W.T.s, or a diploma (Muggle or otherwise.) She could forge a Muggle one, but it felt wrong somehow to pretend she had an education she hadn’t earned. Perhaps she could camp instead of stay in a hotel? The thought of camping again made her hands begin to shake. No. She’d have to save for a hotel.

The only equity she had was their family home. There was no way she could liquidate that asset and turn it into cash. She could perhaps rent the house out, now that the war was over— but that would waste precious time to try to find a trustworthy tenant. And who would want a suburban house for only a few weeks?   
  
The more she thought on it, the more outlandish her ideas became:

Sell all the things she owned? Ask Harry for a loan? Sell her story to the Prophet for money?

Her mind trickled like treacle. All her pointed motivation and smarts she’d had in spades before the war felt scooped clean out of her, as sure as Ron’s splinched shoulder. She’d become blightedly useless.

Others were working to re-establish the government, or rebuild Hogwarts, or volunteering to help orphans. Ron was stepping in to take care of his mother and the household. Everyone else was able to find a way to be of use, with perhaps the exception of George — but he had a real excuse didn’t he? He was in deep mourning. 

What was Hermione mourning? Sure, she’d lost friends and people she cared about, but that wasn’t the same. She had no excuse to be so tired all the time, her brain so sluggish and unresponsive. Even with the locket around her neck she’d been brighter than this, had more fight and more solutions than this. Her presence at the Burrow was so pointless.

She only had a few months to find her parents, and was wasting what time she had left.

McGonagall, now headmistress of Hogwarts, had written to say she and the boys were welcome to finish their final year there. For a moment she had been pleased. She’d be able to have a full and proper education after all! She had something she could work on! But it wasn’t for months, and now it narrowed her timeline. 

She had a proverbial ticking clock, and what was she doing? She was contributing nothing, comforting no one, napping multiple times a day, leeching off the Weasleys, burdening them with her despondent moods; all when she should already be in Australia fixing the problems she’d caused!

In disgust, she shoved the papers to the ground, put a silencing spell on herself and laid down to nap. She’d almost nodded off when she was awoken with a knock and the sound of someone saying her name.

She gave a start to see Harry standing in the doorway looking at her expectantly. 

“Sorry,” he said with a forced smile. “I knocked, but you didn’t respond.”

Hermione moved her lips to answer him but no sound came out. Damn, she’d forgotten about her silencing charms. With a wave of her wand the spell was broken.

“I’m fine, thank you. Is breakfast ready?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at her and carefully sat himself on Ginny’s bed. He was looking pink-cheeked and his hair was even more of a mess than usual, no doubt Ginny’s doing. The carefree appearance was a stark contrast to the look of concern on his face.

“Why did you have a silencing spell on yourself?” 

“It’s nothing, Harry,” she primly answered, leaning down to gather the parchment from the ground. She tapped the sides of the parchment against her thigh to evenly align them. The last thing she wanted was him seeing how disparate her notes were.

Harry continued to stare at her, discernment wrinkling his brow. “Does Ron know about this?”

“About what?” she snapped, holding the papers close to her chest.

“That you’re putting silencing spells on yourself when you sleep.”

“It’s only temporary.” She stopped her tidying. “No one else needs to know about it.”

Harry made a face at that and his gaze became even more grim. 

“You shouldn’t keep this from him. He’ll find out eventually.” She gave a deep huff at his presumption. “Why are you doing it anyways?”

“It’s not that hard to figure out,” Hermione bit out, putting her papers on the bedside table and making her bed, spending far more time than necessary giving it hospital corners so she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye.

“So are you… yelling from nightmares or something?”

Hermione looked at her hands spread across the corner of the bed. “Yes, something like that…”

“Have you tried dreamless sleep potion?” 

“You can get addicted to it far too easily.”

“Yeah, well… it works doesn’t it?”

Hermione turned to look Harry over. He didn’t have the deep bags under his eyes that she or Ron had, and was refusing to look her in the eye. 

“You’re not taking it every night are you? You’re not supposed to take it for more than three days in a row!” she admonished. “After three days you’re supposed to stop taking it or there’s a rebound effect and your dreams could become even more vivid, but you also have trouble falling asleep without it! That’s how you get addicted. You can take the potion again, but you have to—”

“Skip it for five days between. Yeah I know. I take cold medicine on the other nights.”

“Harry, you shouldn’t be self medicating like that.”

He gave one of his piercing glowers and rose from the bed. Now she’d done it. When he was feeling harangued and defensive he always obstinately lowered his head and glared from under his eyebrows. He had no idea how very intimidating that look could be.

“You really think it’s better to suffer through? To use a silencing charm so no one hears you?” 

She ignored his jab and forged ahead. “Different potions combined could be dangerous.” 

“I keep seeing all of you dead,” Harry quietly snarled. “Every single one of you. Or the snake attacking us, or Voldemort killing me, or you at the Manor getting tortured to madness, or Ginny getting killed by Bellatrix, or Ron splinched and bleeding to death.”

Hermione’s chin began to wobble.

“It doesn’t do any good to see it again and again!” he continued, voice suddenly escalating in volume. “It’s hard enough to ignore it all when I’m awake. There’s no fucking way I’m going to willfully think about the bleeding war when I’m sleeping! I’m tired of waking up feeling like I just survived a battle, or lost someone again! I- I just need to sleep... We went months without sleeping proper, and I’m fucking tired of it.”

Hermione felt tell-tale stinging in her eyes and she blinked furiously at them.

“I’m following the instructions for the potions! I don’t mix it with alcohol or other potions. I’m not stupid!”

“I never said you were!” she gasped.

“Well then maybe try not talking to me like I am. Should I be putting a silencing charm on myself like you do? Nap all day, scream all night? How’s that working out, Hermione?” 

Hermione shook her head and the tears finally fell down her cheeks. She hated it when he talked to her like that. She’d never done well when people gave her a dressing down, especially when she was just trying to help. He was right, though. Nothing was working out. She didn’t know what she was doing. Everything was so impossible now that she’d never sort it out. She swiped at her lashes.

Harry gave a sigh; one she’d heard from him use thousands of times. 

“Look,” he said in a much more gentle tone. “I’ll be extra careful. And— and I’ll try to wean myself off it all over the next month or so, okay?”

Hermione gave a stiff nod.

“I just came to let you know breakfast is on soon. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said putting a tentative hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she said roughly wiping at her eyes, shrugging off his hand. She didn’t care how upset he was, there was no call for him to jump on her like that. “But Harry… I meant it. I’d rather you not tell Ron about the silencing charm.”

Harry’s look of gentle concern seemed to harden.

“I don’t like lying to him.”

“I’m not asking you to lie, I’m just asking you not to go and tell him about this one thing.”

“If he asks, I’m telling him,” he stubbornly answered, a defiant tilt to his head making her want to smack him.

“I know you prefer Ron to me, but are you really incapable of keeping ONE secret for me?” 

Harry gave a hurt look. “That’s not fair.”

“Well it’s not fair how your first concern wasn’t how I was doing, but rather if I’d told RON about this!” Hermione bit out, all patience gone. “For you he’ll always come first, and I understand that. I really do. I know I’m not the ‘fun friend’ or the one that makes you feel good. I know I’m the nag—”

“You’re not,” he feebly replied. They both knew that wasn’t true. 

“I am. I know I am sometimes, but I was trying to help and you leapt down my throat for it!”

“I’m sorry for that...” he said, a look of true contrition on his face. 

“It’s fine,” she sighed, though she didn’t feel it. She didn’t have it in her to try and keep up a fight with Harry. He had very few coping skills for his anger and trauma and they’d never gotten on very well when she was concerned about his well being. “But please — don’t say anything about the silencing charms to Ron? I didn’t want anyone to know, Harry, but I especially don’t want Ron getting worried about this. He has so much on his plate, and I just… Please.”

Harry quietly looked away, seemingly wrestling with it, before he finally nodded. Hermione’s whole body sagged with relief. She looked longingly to the camp bed she’d just made. How easy it would be to curl up on it and nap the rest of the day. 

“What’s all this?” Harry asked, picking up her parchments from the side table.

“Nothing! It’s just scribblings!” she cried out, clawing the parchment right out of his hand.

He looked unconvinced. It was a pathetic excuse. She wasn’t even sure why she didn’t want anyone to know about her flimsy Australia plans. Perhaps it was because she didn’t have a clue on how to undo all the wrongs she had done. 

If Ron had seen the papers he’d keep pushing her to tell him what was on the parchment, but Harry was never very relentless when it came to Hermione’s personal life. He never inquired about her mad schedules in third year, S.P.E.W., who she wrote to, or anything much about her life outside of Hogwarts. 

Harry cared about her of course — the two of them loved one another very deeply and would do anything to protect one another — but there often was a lack of curiosity about her life from him. At times this would sting — she invested so much time and energy fretting over Harry and he put in a tenth the effort for her — but it also could prove rather convenient to have a friend who let you have your privacy. She could go about her business and not be questioned or stopped. It was much like with her parents. She had so much freedom to do what she liked without any interference, and definitely took advantage of it at every turn. 

That was what was different about Ron. He was the one person who had absolute interest in her — not her brain, not her achievements, and not what she could do for him— her. 

Ron knew just about everything about her, and paid her so much attention. It was like that even in their first year. Ron she could gab with for hours about everything in the world, and he’d avidly listen to her like no one ever had before. He genuinely cared about every little thing in her life. She’d go off about something, but instead of tuning her out how everyone else did, Ron sat and listened, engaged, argued, asked questions, added his thoughts on it, would have a real conversation with her. 

When she was secretive he’d interfere with her plans, grill her to know what she was up to, and try to get into her head to follow her line of thinking. She’d never had anyone show her that much personal attention. It was so refreshing, was it any wonder she housed a soft spot for the lanky redhead?

As much as Harry ignored Hermione at times, he loved a good mystery. He stood frowning down at her papers a moment too long.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” said Hermione, hoping to distract Harry. Food didn’t work. He was starting to riffle through the papers! “Did Ron cook it this morning?”

She knew Ron was one topic that could thoroughly distract Harry.

“No, he didn’t,” said Harry looking at her, lowering the papers to his side. Yep, mentioning Ron worked every time. “Mrs Weasley cooked everything so I’m sure it’s a particularly good meal.”

“I’m sure that’ll be a relief for Ron,” said Hermione, going into the hallway. She could just sprinkle Ron’s name around like catnip for Crookshanks, coaxing him towards her and away from the papers. “Though I’m surprised he didn’t help her. He’s been doing that every morning.”

She had to suppress a triumphant grin when he set the papers down and followed her into the hallway.

“He’s not up yet.”

She looked at him with surprise. Ron had been up before everyone for weeks, always helping with breakfast and other chores around the house. Why would he suddenly be sleeping in? Even at Shell Cottage he’d been up before most of them. Had something happened in the night to exhaust him? Had he taken a potion to force himself to sleep? Was he avoiding her and her dark moods?

“He’s still sleeping?” she asked, hands nervously clutching her middle. It was a testament to how close they’d grown over the last year, because Harry eyed her hands and expression before giving a sympathetic smile. 

“Hermione, it’s a good thing he’s sleeping in.” 

She fiddled with the hem of her shirt, unconvinced. 

“You know as well as I how little he’s been sleeping,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept in like this for almost a year.”

“Exactly! Why would that suddenly change?” She cringed at the hysterical edge already in her voice.

“Maybe some things are getting back to normal,” he said, giving her a small pat on the shoulder.

Hermione bit her lip and glanced up the stairs. Nothing had just ‘gone back to normal’ recently, and she didn’t see how Harry could be so nonchalant about it. 

“Maybe I should wake him…”

“His mum asked me and Ginny not to. He’ll be grateful for the kip,” he said, poking her down the stairs.

“I should just check on him.”

“I already did. He was tucked up and snoring away minutes ago. He’s fine.”

Knowing he wouldn’t appreciate her continued worrying over something so trivial, she went to the living room to feed Crookshanks. The moment the cat’s kibble hit the bowl he padded over from behind a couch and wound his way around her legs.

She’d missed her wonderful cat when they’d been on the Horcrux Hunt, and he seemed to have missed her just as vehemently when they were finally reunited. That day he’d yowled and thrown himself at her stomach so hard she would have fallen over if Ron hadn’t caught her from behind. Pig had similarly cheeped and hooted for Ron, excitedly flying around his head until Ron snatched him from the air and petted the owl’s little puffed up chest. Harry’s face had fallen ever so slightly as he watched their reunions and looked away.  
  
Ron had caught her eye and the two of them did their best to keep the affection with their pets away from Harry a bit. He’d been devastated upon losing Hedwig. It wasn’t the same as all the people they’d lost, of course, but neither of them wanted to rub it in. 

Crookshanks’s joy upon her return was short lived. After an hour or so of meowing and purring the cat’s resentment at being left for months came to the surface. He ignored Hermione, not deigning to so much as look at her for three days. He’d thankfully forgiven her since then.

“Well, at least one of my ginger boys is up.” She laughed as the large cat continued to purr and nearly tripped her with his vehement headbutts to her ankles. She gave his head a scratch before returning to the kitchen, feeling somewhat calmer. 

Harry was putting glasses out on the table, Mrs Weasley was slicing tomatoes and tending to the streaky bacon, and Ginny stood at the stove looking a touch cross. She was flipping over eggs and cursing as yolk after yolk broke in the pan.

“I can do that,” Harry murmured, but Mrs Weasley answered for Ginny.

“She has to learn some time. She can’t keep leaving all the cooking to me or you boys.”

Ginny gave a crow of triumph as one egg’s yolk stayed intact, giving Hermione a grin. 

“Ron coming down?” Ginny asked as she plated the deflated eggs.

“He’s still having a lie in, it seems…”

“And I don’t want you waking him,” said Mrs Weasley, giving a wave of her wand that filled the pitcher with pumpkin juice. “He’s barely sleeping, poor thing, and I’m glad for him to finally get some real rest!”

Wishing to help, but knowing she would be just as hopeless as Ginny at flipping eggs, Hermione began distractedly putting out plates and silverware for the table, as Harry took platters to the table.

Mr Weasley had already gone to work early that morning, and without Ron breakfast was a rather quiet affair. 

Hermione half heartedly picked at her food. Her persistently tiny appetite hadn’t waxed over the weeks at the Burrow, much to Ron’s chagrin. She’d narrow her eyes in resentment every time he prodded her to eat a few more bites. He wasn’t here now, though. She had to admit she missed his prodding as she silently stared at her plate. Everyone had finished their eating well ahead of her, but she was still wrestling with her first egg and piece of toast.

“I was thinking,” said Ginny as she leaned across the table to a third helping of streaky bacon. “We should go out today.”

Hermione shuddered at the thought of leaving the Burrow.

“Go out?” Harry repeated, taking his and Ginny’s plates to the sink, where Mrs Weasley was doing the washing. 

“Yes, out!” Ginny cried, giving a large grin.

“But we were just at Hogwarts yesterday…” Harry had a perplexed look on his face.

“I mean doing something that isn’t rebuilding after the war or chores. Anything. The village. Luna’s place. Quidditch. Diagon Alley— “

“You are not going to Diagon Alley, young lady!” Mrs Weasley interjected as she scrubbed a pan. Ginny bristled and flushed. “They’ve yet to round up all the criminals from this war, and not weeks ago Diagon Alley was a den of destruction and desperate destitutes.”

“Say that three times fast,” Ginny murmured under her breath, too low for her mum to hear. Harry and Hermione barely hid their smiles.

“Plus, you’re not seventeen yet!”

“Fine, Mum. No Diagon Alley,” she said in a congenial tone, belied by the angry set of her jaw. Ginny tossed her hair over her shoulder. 

“So, besides the ‘din of D’s,’” she said with an agitated look towards her mother’s back, “where would you like to go?”

“I dunno… Whatever you like is fine,” Harry said with an aimless shrug. He looked as keen to go out as Hermione did.

“I say Luna’s then,” she said with an excited grin. “What about you Hermione?”

Hermione forced herself to smile and feign excitement. “Maybe the village? I’ve never been before. Ron mentioned the pub he’d call me from and a paper shop as well.”

“Well, they don’t have much as far as quills go, but you might find something you like there!” Ginny said, looking positively jovial.

“Maybe we should wait and see what Ron wants to do,” said Hermione, giving a look up the stairs.

“I won’t be surprised if he chooses to stay close to home,” said Ginny before adding _sotto voce_, “I think he worries about leaving Mum alone in the house for long. He’s not left the house except to check on George, and he’s been doing a lot around here, hasn’t he?”

“He has, yeah…” said Harry looking at his hands. “We’ll leave it to him then.” 

Harry’s mouth tightened further and guilt was working its way onto his face. Ginny put a hand over his and gave it a squeeze. A loving look passed between them and Harry leaned in to kiss Ginny’s temple, prompting Hermione to look away. 

She and Ron hadn’t quite figured out how to have little moments like that in front of others. After the ‘getting caught snogging by his mother’ debacle they’d been less inclined to touch one another, even innocently, around others. She couldn’t figure out why it was so hard; After all, the first time she snogged Ron they’d done it right in front of Harry! There was no reason they couldn’t be just as demonstrably in love with one another as Harry and Ginny! Well… maybe that was the problem. 

Hermione certainly loved Ron, but wasn’t as certain he felt the same way. In every action she felt cherished… but he hadn’t said he loved her. Not truly. He’d said ‘I love you’ once in passing their sixth year while he was still dating Lavender. She’d replayed the moment in her mind for weeks, but there had been no repeat performance in real life. 

She’d nearly said ‘I love you’ to him a few times, but always caught herself at the last moment. 

The previous week his Mum had been crying because George had patently refused to come home. As his mother cried, Ron took over the half made meal. He’d overcooked the chicken a bit, and the gravy he’d attempted was watery, but he’d somehow managed to finish the meal in time for the family who came for dinner— all of them save George. 

Afterwards they’d gone to the apple orchard and he sat beside Hermione stroking her hair, fretting about the meal and his mother. She looked at him from under her lashes, and a bit of sun hit his hair so perfectly it almost seemed to glow as if he were the source of the light, and not the setting sun behind him. He squinted with worry, and the words ‘I love you’ rang in her head so loudly she could barely keep them from spilling forth. 

She wasn’t entirely certain what kept her from saying it. It was hard to imagine Ron rejecting her or reacting strangely to the revelation. He was so loving and patient with her, prodding her to eat food and checking in with her if she looked the least bit upset… But then Ron did that with everyone. That was just his way. He doted on Harry, his mother, and his siblings just as much as he did Hermione. 

The passionate kisses they’d shared a few times left her breathless and in no doubt that he was attracted to her, but attraction was a very far distance from romantic love, was it not? He’d been able to snog Lavender for months while not showing particular regard for her romantically. 

There were so many passionate and loving moments between them that seemed they HAD to be based in love. But a war, and all those adrenaline filled flashes of tension… Maybe it was just shared trauma they were mistaking for something more. Perhaps he was just mixing up the deep platonic love he felt for Hermione for romantic love, and hormones were making up the rest of the difference. 

Everything felt so dissonant and uncertain, she didn’t want to deny herself the comfort of Ron by throwing in a declaration of love before she knew he felt the same way. There didn’t seem to be a mature rational way of discussing it with him to collect more intel, not that she could think of anyway. It felt every bit as daunting as breaking into the Ministry or Gringotts. 

It was like one of those trust fall exercises her parents had to do at a work retreat. You had to fall backwards with your eyes closed and have faith everyone would catch you. She trusted Ron with her life, but wasn’t sure she could trust she’d fall back into his arms shouting ‘I love you’ and come out unscathed. 

Hermione pushed her plate away, feeling too wane to eat more. The three of them helped Mrs Weasley clean up the kitchen, after which the matron claimed she had a headache and went to rest in her bedroom. They then shuffled about waiting for Ron, playing uninteresting games of chess, throwing a marble around for Crookshanks, and generally feeling a malaise only a Ronless few hours could create. When he still hadn’t made an appearance Hermione finally broke.

“I’m going to go get him.”

“How about I see if he’s still sleeping,” said Harry in an annoyingly calm tone. The glare she was about to give him lost its potency when she saw he looked every bit as impatient to get Ron as she. 

“You two are a real mess when he’s gone,” Ginny commented fondly, finding a brush and sitting down with Crookshanks.

Harry and Hermione shared a glance that was more loaded than Ginny could know. They’d never told her about the time Ron had left the Horcrux hunt. In fact they’d never even discussed it with one another or Ron. 

“Right, well, he’s just upstairs,” said Harry with a pointed look at Hermione before ascending the stairs. Ron hadn’t left them again. He was just sleeping in! The sudden feeling of panic and abandonment were completely unfounded. How ridiculous she was. 

Ginny gave her a consoling look. Hermione managed a halfhearted shrug and sat with a groan beside her. She would brush her cat and try to suppress the growing unease.

A few minutes passed before Harry made his way downstairs, a tired looking Ron in tow. It took everything in her to not launch herself at him, whether to kiss him or demand answers she wasn’t sure. 

“Ron says we should do quidditch today,” said Harry, sitting beside Ginny.

“I told him you were too lazy to walk over to Luna’s or the village!” said Ginny with a teasing smile, pushing a covered plate towards him that housed some breakfast.

Ron made a face and stiffly took a seat at the table, barely sparing Hermione a glance. Had she done something? Why wouldn’t he look at her?

“I’m never going to go to that house,” said Ron, tearing into the plate of food. 

“But we’d get to see Luna!” 

“Luna’s great,” he said before pointing a fork at Ginny, “but I’m not going to go over there.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not having glumpy tea with her lousy dad skulking about,” he said with a snort. “Don’t forget, the man tried to hand us over to Death Eaters.”

“Well he was in an impossible situation…” Hermione offered. Ron rolled his eyes.

“It wasn’t impossible. You don’t turn people over to Death Eaters,” Ron said simply, taking a bite of sausage. Hermione wanted to argue the finer points of it, and could see the other two didn’t agree with Ron’s assessment either. Ron looked between them all before giving a sigh. “Look, if that old bleeder ever shows a whiff of remorse for it, I’ll be happy to let bygones be… but he could have gotten us all killed, so I’m not going to go over there and play polite waiting for an apology.”

“Fair enough,” Harry cut in before anyone could argue the point further. Ginny began to describe the progress made on the Lovegood’s home repairs, but Hermione only half listened. Instead she concentrated on Ron. Despite the extra sleep he was excessively pale, his freckles standing out like cinnamon on top of cream. The shadows under his eyes were pronounced, and he was unshaved. 

Ron swallowed a mouthful of eggs before finally speaking to Hermione.

“Did you get enough to eat at breakfast?” he asked in an undertone. 

Her stomach felt very full after her egg and toast, but she knew that wouldn’t be considered ‘eating enough’ for Ron. She hesitated to answer. He didn’t look her way, instead he sawed a piece of toast in two and began to spread egg on it, before cutting up some sausage and making a nice little half sandwich. She assumed he was back to ignoring her, and gave a start when he spoke again.

“Try and eat this?”

The half sandwich had been wrapped in a napkin and slid across the table to her. She took it, though she had no intention of eating it. If it weren’t a sandwich she’d press it in a journal, chalking it up to another sign that he cared about her, even when he was looking poorly.

“Well, let’s play some quidditch!” Ginny said with a broad smile. Hermione shook her head at how the girl could be so lighthearted after everything. She envied her, really. Harry was brooding and hurting after the war, and there was Ginny being light and warm for him, prompting smiles out of him, making him go out and do something fun. Hermione didn’t know how to do the same for Ron. She didn’t want to go out. She didn’t know how to tempt him into something that would lighten the load. 

“Where’s Mum at? Does she need us to do anything before we go?” Ron asked, looking about.

“She went up to take a nap,” said Ginny, her tone gentler than it had been the whole morning. Ron quietly nodded and a sort of understanding seemed to pass between them because he suddenly put on a grin almost as broad as Ginny’s. Hermione could tell it was forced. His eyes didn’t crinkle up in that inviting way they did when he was genuinely happy, and his smile was always slightly lopsided when he was in genuine amusement, a hint of a dimple creasing his right cheek. 

“Alright, get ready for me to kick your arse, Gin,” he crowed, throwing his sister wildly off balance with a hip check, before darting out the door.

“Fat chance! I’m going to throw a quaffle right through your teeth!” she cackled, chasing after him.

Harry smiled at Hermione before chasing after the two siblings. He had a spring in his step she hadn’t seen in well over a year, really. Weasleys had that effect on people. Even Ron’s forced smile could make Hermione feel lighter. She knew something was off with him, but with the sun shining across his hair as he laughed, she could pretend he was alright for the time being. She was a bit irked, though, that he’d barely interacted with her except to criticize how little she’d eaten. 

Having no urge to be on a broomstick, she darted up the stairs to get her notes regarding her parents, as well as some books she’d pretend she was reading, should someone wonder what she was doing. When she approached the quidditch field the other three were in the air tossing the quaffle about, large grins on all of their flushed faces. It was rare she wished she was good at flying, but when she saw how carefree they all looked she couldn’t help the feeling of jealousy prickle at her. How could they all be so filled with happiness and able to just enjoy things again?  
  
She transfigured a clump of dead leaves into a blanket and sat herself next to an apple tree, taking her books and parchment out from her book bag. 

As they played, darting through the air with practiced ease, she scribbled away at her papers trying to come up with a cohesive plan to get her parents back. After well over an hour the best she could manage was ‘find a Muggle library to do some research.’ She’d listed off a number of topics to research when she got there, as well as possible contacts she could use when a shadow fell over her.

She looked up to see Ron, ruddy from exertion and the sun on his ginger complexion. There was a good bit of sweat staining its way through his thin t-shirt. Him all sweaty and panting should have been mildly disgusting, but her mind was more agreeably occupied by how the shirt clung to him, and emphasized how much broader his chest and shoulders had become. She let out a sharp breath as he lifted the shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. Did he have any idea what he did to her? She was on edge enough! She didn’t need him enticing her to jump him and snog his face off in front of Harry and Ginny.

“We’re packing it in,” he said with a guileless smile at her. No, she was fairly certain he had no idea she wanted to tear his shirt off of him. He inspected the ground below him for pebbles and twigs before he placed his broom then sat to her left with a groan. This gave her just enough time to quickly stow her parchment in a book. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked, eyes trailing over the wet hair at the nape of his neck, just teasing the top of his collar.

“Probably would have if Ginny wasn’t flying like a bloody Hungarian horntail. She was going all out. My fingers are still numb from it!” he laughed holding up one of his large long-fingered hands. “I don’t think I have the same callouses as I did last time we scrimmaged either.”

“Hmmm…” said Hermione putting her much smaller hand in his. She loved his hands. They were always so expressive, warm and strong. She took her other hand and gently inspected his fingers. There still remained a few swirling silvery scars from when the brains had attacked him in fifth year, and a few short scars on his hands he’d picked up over the years. She hoped none of them were from the time she’d attacked him with birds in a jealous rage. Her fingers ghosted over the ruddy knuckles, down the long digits, to his too-short fingernails, finally stopping at his calloused thumb and finger tips. “They’re definitely rougher than mine.”

“Ah, well let’s take a look,” he said, bringing her hand under his nose for a closer inspection. She felt a thrill building within her as he glided a finger down a line on her palm, and hoped he didn’t mind the ink stains. “Hmm… According to my deep knowledge of palmistry this line right here indicates that you read and write too much for your own good…” 

His finger went further down her hand trailing along the inside of her wrist so gently a pleasurable shudder passed through her. “And this line means you’re highly passionate about house elves.”

“Oh it does not!” she laughed in mock indignation.

“Excuuuse me. Between the two of us, who dropped out of divination, and who took it for three years?” 

“You failed to get an O in it, if I recall.”

“That was due to the bias of the geezer testing me, and not because of my excellent palmistry skills,” he said with a sardonic twinkle in his eyes. “Do you want me to continue?”

She nodded her acquiescence, and his finger went back to her palm. 

“Let’s see now… strong double head-line means you’re highly intelligent and kind. But it’s straight so you’re stubborn as all hell…”

A snort escaped her mouth. 

“These short little lines on your lifeline show you’ve had some times of danger, but it seems to be nice and trouble free further down and these little lines along your wrist mean you’re gonna be prosperous— Looks like you can retire well then! And then your love line…” His voice tapered off.

“What about my love line?” She didn’t look at her palm as his finger caressed her. She studied his freckled face, which was quickly turning a deep shade of crimson.

“Erm, it’s… it’s good,” he stammered. “It’s— the little swoopy bit here ends on the mount of… Neptune? No, Jupiter! That means you’re honest and- and love deeply…”

“Does it say anything about if I’ll be loved as well?”

“You’re loved,” he said with certainty. He nodded his head and poked the side of her hand. “Got a strong marriage line and everything! I remember all the girls giggling over that one in divination.”

“Oh…” Disappointment bloomed within her. For a bit she thought he’d been trying to tell her something. He’d just been remembering old divination rubbish. 

“To sum up, you’ve got a case of reader’s hands,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips for a short kiss. “All except your thumb and index finger, that are calloused from gripping quills too tight.”

“Hmm…”

“So what were you up to while I got my arse kicked round the pitch?” he said with a nod at the book beside her.

“Looking at some of the rune translations I did on the Horcrux hunt,” she lied, quickly pushing her book with the Australia plans away from her.

“Why would you be doing that?” 

She should have known better than to bring them out with Ron around. He’d winkle the truth out of her rather quickly if she let him.

“Well…” she scrambled, “I wanted to see if I did them right, now that I have a clear head and time.”

“I guess…” he said, looking at her sceptically. “You doing alright?”

“I have a bit of a headache,” she lied again. Well it wasn’t a complete lie, but once you’d had a headache for two months straight you stopped counting it as something significant.

“I can get you some potion for that, if you like,” he said, searching her face. “Or maybe some water? How about I get you some water and a good size lunch. You didn’t eat much at breakfast and— ”

“Yes, you’ve said,” she snapped, before grabbing the rest of her items, haphazardly holding them in her arms. To avoid his eye she stared down at the blanket. She hadn’t done the best job transfiguring it, for it was already losing its shape along the edges and turning a mottled brown color. From the corner of her eyes she could see him rising from the ground. Shoulders tense, his body squared itself at her. That stance always portended an argument, but was cut off by Ginny calling to him.

“I’m going to make lunch! Can you help Harry put away the brooms?”

“Sorted!” he called back, before looking at Hermione. He lowered his head, blue eyes piercing her like a hot iron. “What’s going on? You’re acting off.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to be bothered about food and treated like a child!”

His coppery eyebrows shot up. “What?” 

“Oh don’t look so surprised! You’ve been on me every day about food and I’m quite sick of it.”

“That’s only because you’re so thin! You’ve probably lost two stone or more over the last year, and you weren’t carrying around much extra to begin with.”

“You think I don’t know that? I don’t need you badgering and prodding me about it constantly, Ron!”

“Well that’s a bit hypocritical,” he said with a churlish look. “You’ve badgered and nagged about plenty of things over the years, many a lot less important than—” His words halted and he let out a deep sigh. 

“You know what? I don’t have the energy for all this,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Sleeping in all morning and playing games really took it out of you, did it?” she bit out. She knew she sounded petulant. She knew she had aimed an unfair dig, but she didn’t much care in the moment. 

His jaw clenched and he loomed over her, tall as an oak tree. Hermione stood her ground, lifting her chin to glare back at him. He looked as if he had a retort, but bit it back. He took a deep breath before saying anything.

“I know something’s off with you, and when you’re ready to tell me what it is, I’ll listen,” he said, his voice so low it was barely a breath, “but I won’t take shit I don’t deserve. And I don’t care if it drives you mad, I’m going to nag and poke and make you eat some goddamned food. If I have to get a funnel and force feed you like a sick chicken every day, I will.”

She gasped as his audacity. “How dare you talk to —” 

“No! I’m done with, with whatever this was!” he said with a dismissive gesture at her before grabbing his broom and storming towards the broom shed. She couldn’t help the bit of panic skittering up her spine as he walked away from her, but calmed as she saw him make a beeline for Harry, broom in hand. He wasn’t apparating away. There weren’t wards keeping him from her. He wasn’t captured and there wasn’t a locket. It was just her he wanted to be rid of...

Books and papers held tightly to her chest, she marched towards the house. She let out a frustrated yell and tried to kick a stick in anger. She spectacularly missed and ended up dropping everything in her hands, the breeze blowing her few notes away from her.

“Oh bloody brilliant!” she cursed under breath, chasing them down. Far too late in the pursuit she realized she’d dropped her wand by her books, and going back to get it might make her lose her notes for good. One piece of paper was thankfully stopped by a bit of overgrown grass, but the other kept blowing away, just out of reach every time she stooped to pick it up. The parchment finally hooked itself on the bottommost branch of an overgrown shrub. She was crawling on her stomach to get the errant paper when she heard Harry and Ron nearby. Not wanting to see Ron as she was still quite peeved, she stayed low in the shrubbery.

“ — right? I really think she could go professional,” Harry was saying as they put away the brooms.

“Yeah. If we could get Gin on the Cannons then they might do well next year.”

“Given the Harpies poster in her room, I’d say that’s an uphill battle.”

“Yeah, well, most things are an uphill battle with the women in my life,” Ron said with a rueful chuckle.

Hermione rolled her eyes, stretching her arm out towards her parchment. Fingers almost touched the edge of the paper. She finally yanked it towards her and scooted out from the shrub when there was a gust of wind. The shed door shut with a great slam making her jump.

In seconds an ear splitting explosion thrashed her eardrums. Dust and wood flew in every direction. Her ears rang as she struggled to make sense of what had happened.

Where the door to the shed used to be there was now a splintered mass of wood falling to the ground. Wood dust and particles of debris were still settling in the air. Ron was coughing and turned away from the mess while Harry stood stock still, wand pointed at the shed. His eyes were wide and fearsome, focusing on where the door stood, holding on by one lone warped hinge. She’d only seen Harry look this way during a battle. 

“Harry? You alright?” Ron wheezed, giving a cough and waving at the cloud of dust around his face. 

Harry didn’t respond. His look was wild and senseless, not acknowledging Ron’s presence at all. If she had her wand she would have frozen Harry in place. Why had she left her wand behind the one time she needed it? She wanted to cry out to Ron to step away from him, but her voice caught in her throat. All that came out was a squeek.

“Mate?”

Harry’s blank eyes finally turned to Ron, and if she thought the feral look on his face was bad, she was ill prepared for the sight of his face beginning to crumple. He looked so close to tears she could barely stand it. 

“You’re - you’re alright,” Ron murmured, slowly standing beside Harry, approaching him like a wounded animal. He didn’t touch Harry, but stood rather close. 

Harry shook his head and just stood, trying to calm his breathing, hands shaking and wand gripped so hard it looked as if he’d snap it.

Ron finally put a hand on their friend’s arm, but Harry flinched away.

“I just… I - I need a moment… I just… I need…” he looks hopelessly about, taking deep gulps of air.

Ron nodded, backing away only a few paces. Harry removed his glasses to shakily wipe at his eyes while Ron checked on the shed. She could see him keeping an eye on Harry the whole time, even as he secured the brooms and repaired the door. It looked nearly as it had before, though the middle section of the wood now had a subtle warp to it.

“It’s all fixed, Harry.”

That seemed to snap Harry’s attention to the present. He looked away from Ron for one final wipe of his eyes.

“The fuck… the fuck is wrong with me… What the hell?” he said, not allowing himself to fully cry. Ron winced.

“We’re all a bit jumpy after everything.”

“No… not like that… I… I could have hurt you!” Harry almost wailed.

“I’d’ve blocked you just fine,’ Ron said with a reassuring smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Hermione didn’t like that one bit. Could Ron honestly stand much of a chance against Harry’s fast reflexes? The thought of Harry inflicting that spell on Ron instead of the shed made her want to cry as badly as Harry’s tear filled gaze. “You weren’t really aiming at me, though, were you? Just the door that slammed, right?”

“I just… I just did it on instinct… I didn’t even hesitate…” Harry shook his head. “God, what if someone had been there? Ginny or Hermione...”

Ron’s appeared torn. She could tell he was just as concerned as Harry about it. How could he not be? 

“But no one was there,” Ron said reassuringly. “After the last year, it’d be weird if you weren’t fast on the draw now.”  
  
“I could’ve killed you.” Harry’s hand shakily threaded through his hair. “I’m not safe to be around…” 

“Well, what’s new? Undesirable Number One and all that,” Ron snorted. Harry looked pained and Ron quickly sobbered his expression. “‘Ok, so… Not your best moment, this, but we can work on it, can’t we? Maybe try next time to just... not do a spell first thing. If you have to point your wand, do it. I do it too— but no spells until you have a chance to give it a proper look, eh?”

Harry mutely nodded and gave a great sniff.

“Want some tea?”

Harry gave a noncommittal shrug, which meant he’d accept the tea and company without complaint. The two went to the house and she saw Ron put an arm around his mate, giving him one of those manly one armed squeezes she’d seen them do. Harry didn’t shrug it off. 

Hermione sat on the ground, clutching the papers to her chest, for how long she didn’t know. She felt thoroughly ashamed for how terse she’d been with him. Earlier he’d called her a hypocrite, and he’d been very right about it.

The way she’d been so combative with Ron when he was just trying to help her was exactly what she’d censured Harry for earlier that morning. He was so kind and thoughtful and she threw it back in his face. Her vicious words made it that much worse when she knew very well what all Ron was dealing with… It was a wonder he put up with her at all. How long would he be able to? Would any of them?

Her hands fumbled as she wiped the dirt off her clothes. She slowly ambled to the rest of her things, a terrible numbness leaking into her limbs and mind with every movement. Book bag properly packed, she made her way to the house. 

Harry was sitting outside with some tea and, slouched low in the wooden chair with long legs fully extended in front of him, was Ron. To anyone that didn’t know Ron well, they’d say he was just a nonchalant teenager, the way he almost lazily drooped off the chair. He even had a bit of a smirk as he chatted at Harry. But she could see the little things that gave away how very tense he was. The set of his mouth was thinner than usual, his shoulders were tensed, his wand was right at his fingertips, and his eyes were worriedly tracing over Harry, studying him like a chess board. 

He’d always had the ability to unflinchingly offer friendship, irreverence and comfort, and it never failed to warm her all over. It was probably what most made her love him. She loved everything about him, truth be told. She imagined she always had. It was hard to keep from shouting it across the garden.

As she approached Harry stared down at his tea, but looked markedly better than he had. Ron glanced up at her with a questioning look on his face, smirk fading to something more serious.

“Ron… Could I talk with you a moment?”

He gave a glance to Harry who waved him off. “‘M fine.”

“Yeah, we can talk,” Ron said with a wary nod, putting aside his cup by the chair. He silently followed Hermione across the yard to behind the back of his father’s shed. It was cool and shaded by a few trees and bushes, affording them privacy. She put up most of the charms she had during the horcrux hunt and dropped her book bag to the ground. 

With little warning she pounced upon him, her arms around his neck, bringing him low enough for their lips to meet. At first he was so stunned he did little but stand there, arms hovering over her waist, but after her tongue worked its way into his mouth he suddenly pulled away.

“What’s going on? You were yelling at me not ten minutes ago and—”

“And now I’m kissing you,” she said before impatiently pulling him down to her lips.

“But why—?” 

“Because you’re you,” she murmured impatiently, nipping his bottom lip to encourage him to continue. 

Whatever doubts he had seemed quashed, for he promptly took control of their kiss. An arm swept around her, embracing her tightly against his strong form. His other hand traced its way through her hair. For a moment she worried at how frizzy it must have been, but as his touch lowered to her neck making her body buzz she found she didn’t care about her hair in the least.

A raw heat coursed through her as the kisses grew in intensity. The smell of fresh grass, sweat, and his hair was filling her senses. Her legs felt wobbly as his hands brushed against her flesh. The hand on her back drifted a bit up her top, making her let out a gasp.

Forcing herself to take a breath, she gently pushed him back from her. His hold on her quickly went slack, and his brows wrinkled with concern.

“Too much? Do you want me to stop?”

“No, I just was thinking we should get more comfortable. Maybe - maybe lying down?” she said, struggling to add a notion of calmness into her tone. Flushed and lips slightly swollen he blinked at her.

“Er, yeah,” he hoarsely responded after a few moments. “Yeah, sure."

With a few quick spells her book bag had turned into a blanket on the ground and began to seat herself. Yes, this looked like a comfortable enough spot to lie down.  
  
They’d never lain together as they kissed, and her stomach was anxiously flipping over it. She wasn’t worried about their intimacy increasing — no, she was really rather excited for that — she wasn’t sure her skills would be up to the task. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, how to position herself, and certainly didn’t know how Ron wanted to be touched and caressed. 

She knew about the machinations of coitus from books and a rather prolonged talk with her mother, complete with charts, but what about everything else leading up to that?   
  
Almost everything surrounding romantic physical intimacy she picked up from erroneous sources. Movies, tawdry romance novels of her mothers that she had scanned through, and random comments from other students made up the majority of her knowledge, if it could even be called that. There didn’t seem to be researched text books that taught you how to touch and kiss properly. If there were such a book, she was fairly certain Ron had read it.

The way Ron kissed and touched her… He seemed to know exactly what to do every time. Was it from all his practice with Lavender? That thought was rather souring. Well, practice made perfect then, because it all felt perfect to her.

Ron lowered himself to the ground, a bit more awkwardly than she as he was all long limbs. Nerves shot through her as she tried to decide how to approach him now that they were both on the blanket. Should she just lie down immediately? Pounce him again? All she knew was if they didn’t continue soon she might go mad.

She was jarred from her fretting by Ron playfully bumping his shoulder against hers. He gave her a boyish smile that calmed her a bit. His hand rested beside hers, but he made no move to touch her. He just stared at her with that easy crooked smile. His slight dimple in his right cheek twitched, and she quickly put a hand to cup it. She grazed her fingers across the rough copper hairs on his face. Dappled light hit across his stubble, highlighting different shades of amber and saffron. She was suddenly acutely aware of how he was very much becoming a man. 

She leaned in and the passion of earlier was immediately ignited, making all her worries vanish. He bent his head to kiss her, and it seared through her. The kiss went on for a long while, her palms slowly moved down his chest, and his hands similarly wandered. Somehow she ended up on her side, leg twining around his. His hand that had been at her back slid down until it rested on her buttocks giving them a firm squeeze and they both moaned in unison. Puffs of laughter began to break their kiss, and they both giddily smiled at one another.

“Well, I guess we both liked that, then” she breathlessly panted.

“Fuck yeah,” he grinned, pulling her close again, briefly seizing an earlobe between his teeth. His mouth travelled down her neck finding the spot that always made her turn boneless, gasping and frantic for more touches. 

“And...” he said, punctuating each move down the column of her neck with a kiss, “I guess...” Kiss. “You like…” Kiss. “That?”

She nodded her head and muffled a moan, pulling her leaping curls aside so he could thoroughly kiss and suck along her neck. 

Her hips rolled against his, and he grunted into her ear, hips automatically mimicking her motion. She was shocked to feel the hardness between his legs pressing into her thigh. He seemed to realize this too because he turned his face away just a bit and gave an unintelligible swear. He began to let go of her, apologizing.

Hermione pulled him tightly against her again, her hips twitching against his. “I like it.”

He let out a deep hoarse “fuuuck” that rumbled through her chest. Their kisses became frantic, and she let out a pleased whimper as his hand went up her shirt, cupped her breast and thumbed the nipple. One of her hands weaved its way through his ginger locks, the other danced down the front of his chest to the edge of his shirt, feeling the wiry hairs just disappearing down his waistband.

She’d never been drunk before, but she now knew what intoxication felt like. Her mind was buzzing yet full at the same time. There was nothing but the blaring thoughts of Ron’s hands pressing solidly into her curves. His mouth perfectly molded against hers. His tongue made wicked thoughts and flames flow down her body. 

“Fuck… ‘Mione…” He gave a hiss and thrust against her, hand delightfully clasping her breast.

Their movements seemed to be hurtling towards something Hermione couldn’t quite place, and her thighs squeezed around his as her center found an even more pleasurable angle to grind against him. 

“Yesss,” she choked out. She pushed her hips more forcefully against him, seam of her jeans rubbing up and down his hardness with complete abandon.

She was dancing closer and closer to the edge, his solid form overwhelming her, the different sensations filling her with a hot lust she’d never experienced before. The jolts fired between her legs built higher and higher. She arched tightly against him, hardly able to breath. 

And then she was cuming, suddenly and so forcefully she let out a loud wailing cry. 

Her muscles twitched and trembled as she stilled against him, feeling awfully close to fainting. Ron gave a few last thrusts of his hips, giving a deep lust-filled moan before similarly seizing, clutching her close to him. They both went boneless, collapsing into each other, left as nothing but a panting tumble of limbs. 

They spent a few hazy minutes holding one another, her head nuzzled into his chest. After a time one of Ron’s hands caressed her hair, attempting to smooth the curls back behind her ear. Wild and a bit sticky with sweat, it clung around his fingers. He made several failed attempts to disentangle himself, without also smothering Hermione’s face in curls.

“It’s like bloody Devil’s Snare,” he chuckled. “Should I light a fire?”

Hermione normally would have blushed pink over a tease about her wild hair, but her mind felt blissfully warm and blank for the first time in weeks.

“I’ve got it,” she lazily smiled back, pushing back all her hair behind her head.

He kissed her sticky forehead and broadly grinned before squinting down their bodies and showing a look of mild distaste. “Ah... where’s my wand?”

She looked down and saw a spreading dark patch on his jeans and one a bit further down his leg. Hermione felt her face crimson as she realized the second stain on his jeans was from her. They sheepishly rolled apart and sat up to get their wands and say a few spells, before turning back to look at one another.

“That was...” he said with a breathless grin.

“Really nice,” Hermione finished. She knew she must have a foolishly besotted look on her face. 

“Really fucking hot.” Ron nodded, ducking his head to kiss her lips as she furrowed her brows at his language. She couldn’t keep her scowl up, and pulled back grinning. 

“It was, wasn’t it?” she laughed. He smiled down at her and one of his hands stroked up and down her upper arm. 

Had she ever felt so care free? 

A sudden pop of nearby Apparition startled them from their reverie, immediately popping the elation she’d felt bubbling through her. It burnt away like morning mist.

Ron was on his feet, a furrowed scowl on his face, turning him from affable lover to menacing warrior in seconds. Hermione quickly joined him, tightly gripping her wand at her side. Whoever it was did not take any care to tread softly. The sound of heavy footfalls came their way, and Hermione exhaled a breath when she saw who was walking towards the house.

“Oh! It’s George!” she said in relief, letting her wand arm go lax at her side. She turned to Ron, expecting to see relief flooding his face. His wayward brother had finally returned home!

She never expected to see a brooding worried expression. 

Ron silently paced forward before he remembered himself, looking back at her. 

“Can you conjure a mirror or something for us? We need to get sorted and back to the house,” he said, brows crinkling even further as he squinted at brother. George had slowed his pace and stood stock still, watching the house.

Hermione silently conjured a mirror for them. Preoccupied by the sudden shift in Ron’s mood she barely took the time to glance at herself as he quickly straightened his clothes and made sure to spell away the telltale signs of a heated snogging session. She finally took the time to sort her own appearance out when she realized she had stubble burns along her face and neck, along with a love bite at her jugular. She quickly covered those up with some glamours, willing herself to remember to use a tincture for them once she got in the house.

Her hair was a lost cause of snarled knots, so she put it into a large bun at the top of her head. The mirror faded out of existence just as she put the final touch on her hair. Ron undid the security spells around them, while Hermione transfigured the blanket back into a book bag. 

“Do I look alright?” she asked, wanting to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything that could give away their previous activities. 

“Sure,” he said with a cursory glance before striding towards George, shoulders tense.

Nothing could account for his sober response to his brother returning, at least as far as Hermione could figure. 

“Oi! George,” Ron called out. 

George gave a start and turned around. Hermione gasped at his appearance. He was unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes, and his skin, normally a bit ruddy, was a sickly pale. He looked as if he’d been hunting Horcruxes.

“Where’d you two come from?” George asked, voice sounding a touch hoarse. Both Ron and Hermione began to color. He squinted at them before his mouth twitched. “Oh I see!”

“We were just at the broom shed,” Hermione protested.

“Yeah, our brooms are notorious for leaving love bites,” George teased, pointing to where Hermione’s neck met her shoulder.

“Ron! I asked you if I looked alright!” she squealed, conjuring another mirror. 

“Don’t worry. If he’s leaving marks like that on your neck, he probably thinks you look alright,” George said with a low laugh. Hermione glanced at Ron and expected to see him churlishly bristling at his brother’s tease.

Instead he looked at the house and bit his lip. “Hermione, could you go on to the house?”

George’s expression quickly turned grim. 

“I… ” she hesitated, unsurely looking between them. Ron looked down at her, for no more than a second, but his intense blue gaze immediately convinced her to comply. “Of course. Should I tell them George is here?”

“Not yet,” Ron answered for the pair of them, crossing his arms to regard his brother. Silence stretched between them, barbed and filled with import Hermione had no access to. She was terribly curious to know what was happening in this hidden exchange, but quickly realized nothing would be said as long as she stood there.

With some nonsensical excuse she trotted to the house. Inside the kitchen she found Ginny at the counter, letting out a laugh and leaning her head backwards to look at Harry whose arms were wrapped around her waist. A half sliced tomato lay forgotten on the cutting board.

She gave an awkward throat clearing to alert them to her presence. They didn’t immediately leap apart, but Harry rather slowly extricated himself from Ginny. Hermione shuffled through the door up to the loo to properly get rid of the love bites and stubble burn Ron had left her with. When she was sure there were no marks left untended, she scampered into Ginny’s room to peer down into the Weasley’s back yard. She could just make out George and Ron’s red hair through the branches of a tree, but frustratingly that’s all she could see. She felt a touch guilty for trying to spy on them, but that was only because Ron was acting so cagey! Something was going on between the two brothers, and she was determined to find out what.

Returning to the kitchen she found Ginny and Harry had finished slicing produce and set out ingredients for everyone to assemble their own sandwiches.

Ron stumped into the room a moment later, but George was nowhere to be seen. Hermione shot him a questioning look. He shook his head before ushering her into the living room and leaning into her, his mouth almost touching her ear.

“He’s still dithering outside.”

“What did you two talk about?” 

“Nothing much,” he said with a shrug. “Mostly checking that he was alright…”

Somehow that didn’t seem like the whole truth. She searched his face, the way he tried to school it to a calm expression, the small downturn of his mouth, and the slight flush across his freckles. He must have caught the argument in her eyes, because he quickly cut her off.

“I can’t force him to come in, and I don’t want to set up Mum and Ginny for disappointment if he bails, so I’m not saying anything, and neither are you.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she assured him, trying not to prickle at his commanding tone. 

“Ron, Hermione, we have owls!” Harry called out to them.

“Be right there,” Ron answered, his serious expression robotically flickering into a smile before he entered the kitchen. “Fare looks good. Thanks, Gin.”

Hermione felt a chill settle around her. When had he become so good at putting on smiles that didn’t meet his eyes?

A handsome horned owl with a Ministry of Magic crest around its neck sat perched on the kitchen windowsill, looking about the room in a terribly imperious way. Harry and Ginny stood next to the bird.

“Aren’t you a proud one,” said Ginny, stroking the bird on its feathered chest before feeding it an owl treat.

Hermione primly seated herself at the worn kitchen table, expecting Ron to take a seat beside her. Instead he took a moment to get her a glass of water and an apple. He placed them in front of her with a pointed look. She ignored his gaze and fixed her sights on the owl at the window.

“You should wait until you’ve taken the letter before you fatten them up,” said Harry, though he seemed just as eager to pet the pretty thing, looking at the bird in a longing sort of way. Moments like this made Hermione’s heart clench at how he’d lost his Hedwig. “Don’t want it flying off before we take the letters.”

The owl gave Harry a sharp peck on the finger, as if offended he’d impugn its honor in such a way. 

“Sorry! I didn’t mean it,” Harry said with a bowed head before removing three indentically sealed letters and bringing them to the table and handing one each to Ron and Hermione. With the owl gone, Ginny went to retrieve Mrs Weasley for lunch. 

Harry had a grim look on his face, but quickly cracked his letter open, hesitating in reading it as he waited for Ron and Hermione to open theirs as well. Ron pursed his lips at his unopened letter and tapped it on the table, glancing to Hermione then back to the parchment.

A wild thought rushed through Hermione’s head. What if the Ministry was going to bring them before the Wizengamot for crimes during the war? They’d broken into the Ministry, Gringotts... Harry even did an Unforgivable there!

Hermione’s hands shook as she inspected the crisp envelope, and for an awful moment she thought she might faint. The parchment was of the finest quality Hermione had ever seen, thick and flecked with little pieces of silvery material woven into the paper. The seal on it was dark purple and had the Ministry of Magic crest pressed into it, making for an intimidating sight.

“Real official, innit?” Ron said into her ear. Hermione nodded back, hesitating before breaking the seal. They each turned to their letters.

> _To Miss Hermione Granger,_
> 
> _In the name of the Ministry of Magic, the Minister of Magic takes pleasure in presenting the Order of Merlin, First Class to you. _

“What?” Hermione gave a yelp, knocking over her glass of water that pooled across the table. 

“What is it?” asked Mrs Weasley from the stairs, Ginny rushing past her to Harry’s side and reading the letter with wide eyes. 

“Does yours say this too?” Hermione asked Ron, shoving her letter at him. He scanned over it and nodded. 

“Harry?” Hermione asked, cheeks flushed, handing her letter over to him. Harry nodded as well. She grabbed it back and voraciously continued reading.

> _This is to award your extraordinary heroism in the Battle of Hogwarts, and other aid you rendered to the war effort. You have distinguished yourself with conspicuous bravery, valour and intrepidity, at great risk to your own life, going above and beyond any wizard or witch’s duty during the last war. Your actions reflect the highest traditions and tenets of wizardom, and for all this we thank you._
> 
> _We will be holding a ceremony in August to formally present you with your Order of Merlin, should you choose to accept it._
> 
> _The Ministry also wants to extend an opportunity for someone of your caliber to continue such works as we rebuild our community. We are offering you the position of Deputy Auror, to begin as soon as you are able. After our abbreviated training of several months, you would be promoted to full Auror. Attached are forms detailing this position, and a meeting must be scheduled for the final papers to be signed, should you agree to accept the position._
> 
> _The Ministry commends you for all your service, and waits for your reply,_
> 
> _Thank you,_
> 
> _Kingsley Shacklebolt  
_ _Minister of Magic _

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” asked Mrs Weasley, marching over to them arms akimbo.

“They’ve been awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class,” Ginny said, breathlessly looking between them all, just as flabbergasted as they were.

“What?” Mrs Weasley cried out, grabbing for a letter to read as well. As her eyes got to the bottom of the page she gave a horrid yowl before hugging Ron and crying. “Ohh Ron… I can’t believe— I mean... We all knew Harry would, but… Oh Ronnie!”

Ron silently patted his mother’s shoulder, still in his place staring at the paper with wide eyes.

“Let me see it?” Mrs Weasley asked her son, and he dazedly handed it over. “Order of Merlin! And… Kingsley wants you to become an Auror? But you haven’t even graduated from Hogwarts yet!”

Ron, uncharacteristically quiet, gave a shrug and looked to Hermione and Harry. 

“And we didn’t even have to take our NEWTs,” Harry replied, giving Ron a conspiratorial grin.

“Makes it pretty clear how desperate the Ministry must be for recruits to ask me to join them,” Ron said in a low voice, barely audible as he shook his head. Hermione knew this was a perfect moment to intervene and stop him from his self deprecation, but found herself unable to form the words needed to boost him. Luckily his mother stepped in.

“Oh of course they’d want you, Ron! You’ve an Order of Merlin!” Mrs Weasley proclaimed, clutching Ron to her breast again, great fat tears forming in her eyes. “You all were so brave… ”

“Is everything alright?” they heard from the kitchen door. 

There stood George. His shadowed and sunken eyes darted around his childhood home with a strange caginess. He hadn’t set foot at the Burrow since well before the war ended, and didn’t particularly look like he wanted to be there now.

Mrs Weasley, thoroughly overwhelmed by the sight of him on top of all the Ministry news, broke into wet sobs that were even louder than before. She bustled across the room to give George a crushing hug he perfunctorily returned. 

“These three just got Order of Merlin, First Class, and have been invited to join the Aurors, no NEWTs required,” Ginny reported as she went up to hug George as well. 

“Oh is that all? Nothing impressive like landing yourselves on the Chocolate Frog cards?” George said with a dry smile, slowly extracting himself from his mother’s grasp. “Got any food?”

“Ginny set out some sandwich fixings. Here, I’ll make you one” Ron said, getting up from the table.

“See, Ickle Ronniekins making me a sandwich— definitely a more impressive feat than medals and dream careers,” George said, slumping to the kitchen table and sitting beside Hermione. He smelled a bit of sweat and stale drink. She had to wonder how he’d been spending the past weeks. 

“I’m so happy to have you home! I was beginning to think you’d never come back,” Mrs Weasley bemoaned, bustling the kitchen to get some tea going.

“Well… I’m back,” George said, resting his elbows on the table, looking every inch as weary as Hermione felt. “At least for a bit… Might need to take this lot out to celebrate Ron’s sandwich skills later tonight. Big deal, that.”

“It’s nice to have something to celebrate, for once,” Harry said with a nod. “What are you thinking?”

“I dunno, maybe hit the pub in the village,” George said with a shrug. 

“No, not the village,” Ron said with a strange amount of firmness, thrusting a full plate of sandwiches in front of George, then another in front of Hermione. His expression had turned grim, and his mouth had become a firm straight line. Hermione stared at him as George, Ginny and Harry speculated over where to spend their evening. Where everyone else was happy to come up with ideas, Ron had grown completely silent. No one else seemed to have noticed the change in Ron’s demeanor, though.

“I’m a bit nervous about Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade— we wouldn’t have much privacy,” Harry noted. 

“Harry’d probably be swarmed with people,” said Ginny.

“I know a Muggle club we could hit up,” said George lowly, so his mother couldn’t hear over her ministrations with the kettle. “We’d need to make you all some Muggle I.D.s, but I can manage that easy enough.”

“I’ve never been to a Muggle club! Do I have to dress up?” asked Ginny, eyes bright.

“A bit, yeah— I bet Hermione can help you with that.”

“I’ve never been to a club either!” Hermione let out, feeling nervous at the prospect of it. The most she'd seen of clubs was quickly and nervously walking by them in London. It didn’t seem a good fit for her.

“Well then Angelina can help,” George said, making sure his mother wasn’t able to hear. “How ‘bout we meet at my hotel after dinner here. Round eight thirty? Gives the girls a chance to dress up a bit, and us lads a chance to pre-drink a bit before we leave.”

Ron had little enthusiasm on his face, but seeing George, Ginny and Harry’s attitude about it, gave a nod. Hermione nodded along, standing from the table. She went to the kitchen door and gave Ron a tilt of her head so he’d follow. He quickly took up with her, but not before grabbing a few sandwiches in a clean dish cloth.

“You don’t look too keen on going to a club,” said Hermione as they went out.

“I’m not. You don’t seem too keen on it either, though.”

“No… It sounds exhausting. We wouldn’t even leave properly until nine or later. Plus who wants to be scantily clad in an ill-lit place with banging music and alcohol?”

A small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Scantily clad?”

“The ‘dress code’ for women is a bit underdressed in clubs for my liking. Always something low cut, or short and strappy. Lots of skin.”

“Hmmm if you’re there, I think a Muggle club might not be so bad,” he said, eyeing her body up and down.

“Well, Muggle clubs are very different from any of the pubs or parties you’ve been to, unless you’ve secretly gone to, I don’t know, a Wizard rave of some sort.”

“I’ve seen lots of wizards raving about lots of things the past few years. No idea what that has to do with Muggle clubs.”

“A ‘rave’ is a wild sort of dance party,” she explained. “Politicians were even speaking out against them a few years ago. It’s just not a natural fit for someone like me.”

“We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to, but at the same time,” said Ron, taking her hand to draw her close, chuckling a bit. “I wouldn’t mind getting to see you adhering to the Muggle club dress code.”

She smiled at his cheek, a blush warming her face as his hands encircled her waist.

“Well… it might be fun to celebrate a bit. We’ve not had much chance to celebrate this year.”

“Order of Merlin! Blimey… It feels a bit unreal… You don’t suppose George is pranking me?”

“Of course not!” she laughed.

“Awfully coincidental timing… We get the letters, seconds later there’s George... This is the kind of shit prank I can see him pulling for his big debut back at the Burrow.”

Hermione’s face sobered a bit. 

“I don’t think we’ll see him debuting any pranks soon… He looked so tired, and —” she bit her lip, not wanting to alarm him, but also knowing it was best to talk honestly about it. “Ron, I think he has been drinking today. I could smell it on him…”

Ron nodded and his hold on her slackened by a margin. “The last time I visited him he was deep in a bottle… We didn’t get too deep into it. I don’t want to push him too hard about it right now.”

“Well won’t a club be a rather bad environment for him?”

“I’d rather he be drunk with company than without.”

“I suppose… Well, maybe we should do this, if not to have fun, then just to watch out for George.”

Ron kissed the top of her head. “Always a thoughtful one, you.”

She hummed at his attention.

“So… The Aurors…” Ron said with a nervous swallow.

“Oh that!” Hermione said with a snort.

“Yeah… What are your thoughts on it?” he said, gently pulling himself from her grasp.

“A few years ago I might have been flattered at being asked, but I think they have a lot of nerve asking us to go straight into anything like that, given the year we’ve had! And we haven’t even finished our education!”

“So you don’t want to be an Auror?”

“Of course not! I’d rather, I don’t know, scrape barnacles off of dragons. Plus they must know our whole class has been invited back to Hogwarts,” she said with a small scoff. “Honestly, I don’t know how they can expect anyone in their right mind to take such an offer.”

Ron grimaced as he scratched at his jaw, hairs rasping against his fingers with every movement. 

“Yeah, probably have to be rather mental…” he said, going a bit pale as his mouth turned down.

“Oh no…” Hermione said with a sudden realization. “You don’t think Harry will take that offer, do you?” 

His eyebrows rose. “Yeah, he will.”

“Of course he would! He’s just the sort of brave stubborn person to do it, isn’t he? We’ll just have to convince him not to!” she said, about to march back into the house, but Ron caught her arm. 

“Hermione… He’s going to join the Aurors. There’s nothing that’ll stop him.”

“Well not with that attitude!”

“You saw him in there, he was smiling and happy about it.”

“I don’t care if he’s over the moon about it! It’s dangerous, and we’ve been through enough! He can’t just go and throw his life away—”

“How would being an Auror be throwing his life away?” Ron asked, giving a penetrating look. Nerves fluttered in her stomach. “It’s a good career.”

“Of course it is, but it’s dangerous! He could get hurt! Especially without all the training!”

“Well… Let’s look at what training he’s already gotten,” he hoarsely began. “He’s quick on his feet. He’s fairly athletic. He’s trained for years for this really… Giant spiders, tons of duels, battles and snatchers. Was on the quidditch team—”

“Oh what does that have to do with it!” she irritatedly asked.

“There are missions that require flying skills, and it shows he can work with a team,” Ron rattled off in a low voice. “Plus he doesn’t have slow reflexes and has the ability to keep his head about him in battles ok enough… Yeah he could be an alright Auror, even without a seventh year under his belt. He wouldn’t be throwing his life away. And Kingsley says he’s good enough. He’d know that, wouldn’t he?”

“I think you’re painting an overly rosy picture.”

“Well, he’s signing up no matter if he’d be shit or not,” Ron growled in protest, looking oddly heated about it. “So it’s best to just support him. It’s his choice, after all.”

Hermione crossed her arms and shook her head, thinking of Harry’s rattled response just earlier that day. He was in no fit condition to see action again. She would have argued this to Ron, but he didn’t know she’d seen it, and didn’t feel like confessing she’d been spying on them.

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it… But you’ll have to accept it,” Ron said evenly, though his eyes looked anguished. “You will, won’t you?”

She let out a huff. “I… I will once he’s in the Aurors, but until then, I make no promises.”

“It’s something he has to do,” he said, staring right through her. She’d never seen him so adamant about anything for Harry before. His eyes traced over her face, searching for something. “You can understand that, right?”

“Fine, Ron, I can understand it!” she said with a small eye roll before smiling at him. “Harry’s lucky to have you defend his ridiculous choices.”

He gave a shrug, staring at the ground, looking rather glum.

“Ron, Hermione, dears, come and get some lunch!” Mrs Weasley called from the house.

“No escaping food in the Weasley house,” Hermione murmured, putting a hand into Ron’s that seemed to startle him from his reverie.

“Er right… Better get inside and down a few sandwiches… Need the energy for later tonight,” he said, still looking every inch of him miserable.

“You alright?”

“Just hungry,” he said with a smile. This one didn’t reach his eyes either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it please review! :D I can’t emphasize how much reviews motivate me to write more! :D


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